FROM   THE   LIBRARY   OF 


REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON.   D.  D, 


BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 


THE   LIBRARY  OF 


PRINCETON   THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


*«-     ScB 
skcu      t3l£o 


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4. 


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OF  PI 


i  iu 


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0. 


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23  1936 


WORKS 


ANNA  LJETITIA  BARBAULD 


WITH  A  MEMOIR 


BY  LUCY  AIKIN. 


Bright- eyed  Fancy  hovering  o'er 

Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 

Thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn 


IN    THREE    VOLUMES. 

VOL.  HI. 


BOSTON. 

PUBLISHED    BY    DAVID    REED, 


[S26. 


CAMBRIDGE  : 
Printed  bv  Hillwrd  &  MeteaTft 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  IN. 


JUVENILE  WORKS.  Page 

A  Legacy  for  Young  Ladies. 

True  Magicians 1 

A  Lecture  on  the  Use  of  Words 10 

The  Pine  and  the  Olive:   a  Fable 13 

On  Riddles 15 

The  King  in  his  Castle 20 

On  Female  Studies 24 

The  Rich  and  the  Poor.  :    a  Dialogue 33 

Description  of  an  Animal  lately  found  in  the  Wilds  of  Derbyshire    40 

On  the  Classics 42 

Letter  of  a  Young  King 54 

Verses  written  in  the  Leaves  of  an  Ivory  Pocket-book,  presented 

to  master  T**** 59 

On  Plants 61 

On  a  Portrait  of  a  Lady  and  Two  Children 64 

Earth 65 

On  the  Uses  of  History :    in  Four  Letters 68 

Fashion :   a  Vision 94 

To  Miss  D*** 102 

On  the  Birth  of  a  Friend's  eldest  Son 103 

Epitaph  on  a  Goldfinch 105 

The  Morning  Repast 106 

Description  of  Two  Sisters 107 

A  Character 109 

Pic-nic 110 


viii  CONTENTS. 

Letter  from  Grimalkin  to  Selima 11: 

Petition  of  a  Schoolboy  to  his  Father 117 

Tlie  River  and  the  Brook  :    a  Fable 120 

The  Lament:    a  Ballad 121 

Allegory  on  sleep 123 

To  ****,  occasioned  by  his  Poem  on  the  Sun 127 

A  Hymn 128 

On  Friendship 130 

Confidence  and  Modesty:   a  Fable 135 

The  Death-Bed 137 

A  Dialogue  of  the  Dead,  between  Helen,  and  Mad.  Maintenon  1 39 

A  Riddle 144 

On  Expense 145 


Evenings  at  Home. 

The  Wasp  and  Bee  :    a  Fable , S 

The  Young  Mouse :    a  Fable 4 

Alfred  :    a  Drama 5 

Animals  and  their  Countries 11 

Canute's  Reproof  to  his  Courtiers 12 

The  Masque  of  Nature , 14 

Things  by  their  right  Names 16 

The  Goose  and  Horse:   a  Fable 18 

On  Manufactures 19 

The  Flying  Fish 30 

A  Lesson  in  the  Art  of  Distinguishing 31 

The  Phenix  and  Dove 40 

The  Manufacture  of  Paper 42 

The  Four  Sisters 47 

Hymns  in  Prose  for   Children 5S 

LITERARY   ESS 

On  the  Tatler,  Spectator,   Guardian,  and  Freeholder  .  SI 

On  the  Origin  and  Progress  of  Romance- Writing  .    .  .  LQ5 


LEGACY  FOR  YOUNG  LADIES 


CONSISTING    OF 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES, 


PROSE    AND    VERSE, 


PREFACE. 


The  late  Mrs.  Barbauld  was  one  of  the  best  friends  of 
youth.  In  her  "  Early  Lessons,"  and  "  Prose  Hymns," 
she  has  condescended  to  apply  her  admirable  genius  to  the 
instruction  even  of  infant  minds.  Several  excellent  pie- 
ces, adapted  to  children  of  different  ages,  she  contributed 
to  Dr.  Aikin's  "Evenings  at  Home."  That  elegant  vol- 
ume of  verse  and  prose,  "The  Female  Speaker,"  was 
compiled  by  her  for  the  use  of  young  ladies,  for  whom  she 
also  made  a  selection  from  the  Tatlers,  Spectators,  and 
Guardians,  prefixing  to  it.  an  instructive  and  beautiful 
Essay.  In  others  of  her  productions  she  has  given  valua- 
ble advice  to  parents  on  the  subject  of  instruction  ;  and  her 
"  Poems  "  contain  many  pieces  worthy  to  be  early  reposited 
among  the  choicest  stores  of  an  elegant  and  ingenuous 
mind. 

Many  young  persons  of  both  sexes  partook,  during  the 
course  of  her  long  life,  of  the  benefit  of  her  personal  in- 
structions ;  and  in  the  present  volume  she  may  be  regarded 
as  continuing  even  from  the  grave  to  delight  and  improve 
the  rising  generation. 

These  pieces  were  found  among  her  papers  by  the  mem- 
bers of  her  own  family.  Some  of  them  enforce  moral 
1  ruths;  others  contain  instruction  in  history  and  other 
branches  of  the  graver  studies  of  youth  ;  but  the  greater 
number  are  of  a  light  and  elegant  cast,  adapted  to  exercise 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

the  ingenuity  and  amuse  the  fancy  while  they  refine  the 
taste.  Those  in  the  form  of  letters  were  all  addressed  to 
different  ladies  whom  she  favoured  with  her  friendship. 

Had  she  herself  presented  these  pieces  to  the  public,  it 
is  probable  that  she  would  in  some  instances  have  extended 
them  by  additions  which,  from  her  own  pen,  would  have 
enhanced  their  value,  but  which  it  would  have  been  pre- 
sumption in  any  other  to  attempt.  None  of  them,  however, 
can  properly  be  called  fragments :  and  it  was  so  natural  to 
her  to  express  herself  with  the  highest  beauty  and  perfec- 
tion of  style,  that  in  this  respect  little  difference  would  be 
found  either  in  verse  or  prose,  between  the  slightest  sketch 
she  ever  traced  and  the  most  finished  of  her  admired  pro- 
ductions. 

Lucy  Aiki.x. 

Hampstead,  Dec.  1825. 


A  LEGACY 

FOR 

YOUNG   LADIES. 


TRUE  MAGICIANS. 


TO  MISS  C 


MY  DEAR  SARAH, 

1  have  often  reflected,  since  I  left  you,  on  the  wonder- 
ful powers  of  magic  exhibited  by  you  and  your  sister. 
The  dim  obscurity  of  that  grotto  hollowed  out  by 
your  hands  under  the  laurel  hedge,  where  you  used 
to  mix  the  ingredients  of  your  incantations,  struck  us 
with  awe  and  terror  ;  and  the  broom  which  you  so 
often  brandished  in  your  hands  made  you  look  very 
like  witches  indeed.  I  must  confess,  however,  that 
some  doubts  have  now  and  then  arisen  in  my  mind, 
whether  or  no  you  were  truly  initiated  in  the  secrets 
of  your  art  ;  and  these  suspicions  gathered  strength 
after  you  had  suffered  us  and  yourself  to  be  so 
drenched  as  we  all  were  on  that  rainy  Tuesday  ; 
which,  to  say  the  least,  was  a  very  odd  circumstance, 
considering  you  had  the  command  of  the  weather. — As 
I  was  pondering  these  matters  alone  in  the  chaise  be- 
tween Epsom  and  London,  I  fell  asleep  and  had  the 
following  dream. 


:Z  rRUE    MAGICIANS. 

I  thought  I  had  been  travelling  through  an  unknown 
country,  and  came  at  last  to  a  thick  wood  cut  out  into 
several  groves  and  avenues,  the  gloom  of  which  in- 
spired  thoughtfulness,  and  a  certain  mysterious  dread 
of  unknown  powers  came  upon  me.  I  entered  how- 
ever one  of  the  avenues,  and  found  it  terminated  in 
a  magnificent  portal,  through  which  I  could  discern 
confusedly  among  thick  foliage,  cloistered  arches  and 
Grecian  porticoes,  and  people  walking  and  conversing 
amongst  the  trees.  Over  the  portal  was  the  follow- 
ing inscription  :  "  Here  dwell  the  true  magicians. 
Nature  is  our  servant.  Man  is  our  pupil.  We 
change,  we  conquer,  we  create." 

As  I  was  hesitating  whether  or  no  I  should  pre- 
sume to  enter,  a  pilgrim,  who  was  sitting  under  the 
shade,  offered  to  be  my  guide,  assuring  me  that  these 
magicians  would  do  me  no  harm,  and  that  so  far  from 
having  any  objection  to  be  observed  in  their  op- 
erations, they  were  pleased  with  any  opportunity  of 
exhibiting  them  to  the  curious.  In  therefore  I  went, 
and  addressed  the  first  of  the  magicians  I  met  with, 
who  asked  me  whether  I  liked  panoramas.  On  re- 
plying that  I  thought  them  very  entertaining,  she  took 
me  to  a  little  eminence  and  bade  me  look  round.  I 
did  so,  and  beheld  the  representation  of  the  beautiful 
vale  of  Dorking,  with  Norbury-park  and  Box-hill  to 
the  north,  Riegate  to  the  east,  and  Leitli  tower  with 
the  Surry  hills  to  the  south.  After  I  had  admired 
for  some  time  the  beauty  and  accuracy  of  the  paint- 
ing, a  vast  curtain  seemed  to  be  drawn  gradually  up. 
and  my  view  extended  on  all  sides.  On  one  hand  1 
traced  the  windings  of  the  Thames  up  to  Oxford, 
and  stretched  my  eye  westward  over  Salisbury  Plain, 
and  across  the  Bristol  Channel  into  the  romantic 
country  of  South  Wales  ;  northward  the  view  ex- 
tended to  Lincoln  cathedral,  and  York  minster  towo-- 


TRUE    MAGICIANS.  o 

ing  over  the  rest  of  the  churches.  Across  the  Sus- 
sex downs  I  had  a  clear  view  of  the  British  Channel, 
and  the  opposite  coast  of  France,  with  its  ports 
blockaded  by  our  fleets.  As  the  horizon  of  the  pan- 
orama still  extended,  I  spied  the  towers  of  Notre 
Dame,  and  the  Tuilleries,  and  my  eye  wandered  at 
large  over  "  The  vine-covered  hills  and  gay  regions 
of  France,"  quite  down  to  the  source  of  the  Loire. 
At  the  same  time  the  great  Atlantic  ocean  opened  to 
my  view  ;  and  on  the  other  hand  I  saw  the  lake  of 
Geneva,  and  the  dark  ridge  of  Mount  Jura,  and  dis- 
covered the  summits  of  the  Alps  covered  with  snow ; 
and  beyond,  the  orange  groves  of  Italy,  the  majestic 
dome  of  St.  Peter's,  and  the  smoking  crater  of  Ve- 
suvius. As  the  curtain  still  rose,  I  stretched  my  view 
over  the  Mediterranean,  the  scene  of  ancient  glory, 
the  Archipelago  studded  with  islands,  the  shores  of 
the  Bosphorus,  and  the  gilded  minarets  and  Cyprus 
groves  of  Constantinople.  Throwing  back  a  look  to 
the  less  attractive  north,  I  saw  pictured  the  rugged, 
broken  coast  of  Norway,  the  cheerless  moors  of  Lap- 
land, and  the  interminable  desolation  of  the  plains  of 
Siberia.  Turning  my  eye  again  southward,  the  land- 
scape extended  to  the  plains  of  Barbary,  covered  with 
date-trees ;  and  I  discerned  the  points  of  pyramids 
appearing  above  the  horizon,  and  saw  the  Delta  and 
the  seven-mouthed  Nile.  In  short,  the  curtain  still 
rose,  and  the  view  extended  further  and  further  till 
the  panorama  took  in  the  whole  globe.  I  cannot  ex- 
press to  you  the  pleasure  I  felt  as  I  saw  mountains, 
seas,  and  islands,  spread  out  before  me.  Sometimes 
my  eye  wandered  over  the  vast  plains  of  Tartary, 
sometimes  it  expatiated  in  the  savannahs  of  America. 
I  saw  men  with  dark  skins,  white  cotton  turbans 
wreathed  about  their  heads,  and  long  flowing  robes 
of  silk;  others  almost  naked  under  a  vertical  sun. 


4  TRUE    MAGICIANS. 

I  saw  whales  sporting  in  the  northern  seas,  and  ele- 
phants trampling  amidst  fields  of  maize  and  forests 
of  palm-trees.  I  seemed  to  have  put  a  girdle  about 
the  earth,  and  was  gratified  with  an  infinite  variety  of 
objects  which  I  thought  I  never  could  be  weary  of 
contemplating.  At  length,  turning  towards  the  magi- 
cian who  had  entertained  me  with  such  an  agreeable 
exhibition,  and  asking  her  name,  she  informed  me  it 
was  Geography. 

My  attention  was  next  arrested  by  a  sorceress,  who, 
I  was  told,  possessed  the  power  of  calling  up  from  the 
dead  whomsoever  she  pleased,  man  or  woman,  in 
their  proper  habits  and  figures,  and  obliging  them  to 
converse  and  answer  questions.  She  held  a  roll  of 
parchment  in  her  hand,  and  had  an  air  of  great  dig- 
nity. I  confess  that  I  felt  a  little  afraid  ;  but  having 
been  somewhat  encouraged  by  the  former  exhibition, 

I  ventured  to  ask  her  to  give  me  a  specimen  of  her 
power,  in   case  there   was    nothing  unlawful   in   it. 

II  Whom,"  said  she,  "  do  you  wish  to  behold  ?  "  Af- 
ter considering  some  time,  I  desired  to  see  Cicero,  the 
Roman  orator.  She  made  some  talismanic  figures 
on  the  sand,  and  presently  he  rose  to  my  view,  his 
neck  and  head  bare,  the  rest  of  his  body  in  a  flowing 
toga,  which  he  gathered  round  him  with  one  hand, 
and  stretching  out  the  other  very  gracefully,  he  recited 
to  me  one  of  his  orations  against  Catiline.  He  also 
read  to  me, — which  was  more  than  I  could  in  reason 
have  expected, — several  of  his  familiar  letters  to  his 
most  intimate  friends.  I  next  desired  that  Julius  Cae- 
sar might  be  called  up  :  on  which  he  appeared,  his 
hair  nicely  arranged,  and  the  fore  part  of  his  head, 
which  was  bald^  covered  with  wreaths  of  laurel ;  and 
he  very  obligingly  gave  me  a  particular  account  of  hi* 
expedition  into  Gaul.  T  wished  to  see  the  youth  of 
Wacedon,  but  was  n   little  disappointed   in   his  figure. 


TRUE    MAGICIANS.  O 

lor  he  was  low  in  stature  and  held  his  head  awry ; 
but  I  saw  him  manage  Bucephalus  with  admirable 
courage  and  address,  and  was  afterwards  introduced 
with  him  into  the  tent  of  Darius,  where  I  was  greatly 
pleased  with  the  generosity  and  politeness  of  his  be- 
haviour. 1  afterwards  expressed  some  curiosity  to 
see  a  battle,  if  I  might  do  it  with  safety,  and  was  grat- 
ified with  the  sea-fight  of  Actium.  1  saw,  after  the 
first  onset,  the  galleys  of  Cleopatra  turning  their  prows 
and  flying  from  the  battle,  and  Antony,  to  his  eternal 
shame,  quitting  the  engagement  and  making  sail  after 
her.  I  then  wished  to  call  up  all  the  kings  of  Eng- 
land, and  they  appeared  in  order  one  after  the  other, 
with  their  crowns  and  the  insignia  of  their  dignity, 
and  walked  over  the  stage  for  my  amusement,  much 
like  the  descendants  of  Banquo  in  Macbeth.  Their 
queens  accompanied  them,  trailing  their  robes  upon 
the  ground,  and  the  bishops  with  their  mitres,  and 
judges,  and  generals,  and  eminent  persons  of  every 
class.  I  asked  many  questions  as  they  passed,  and 
received  a  great  deal  of  information  relative  to  the 
laws,  manners,  and  transactions  of  past  times.  I  did 
not,  however,  always  meet  with  direct  answers  to  my 
questions.  For  instance,  when  I  called  up  Homer,  and 
after  some  other  conversation  asked  him  where  he  was 
born,  he  only  said,  "  Guess  ! "  And  when  I  asked  Lou- 
is the  Fourteenth  who  was  the  man  in  the  iron  mask, 
he  frowned  and  would  not  tell  me.  1  took  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure  in  calling  up  the  shades  of  distinguished 
people  in  different  ages  and  countries,  making  them 
stand  close  by  one  another,  and  comparing  their  man- 
ners and  costume.  Thus  I  measured  Catharine  of 
Russia  against  Semiramis,  and  Aristotle  against  Lord 
Bacon.  I  could  have  spent  whole  years  in  conversa- 
tion with  so  many  celebrated  persons,  and  promised 
myself  that  I  would  often  frequent  this  obliging  magi- 


0  TRUE    MAGICIANS. 

cian.  Her  name,  I  found,  was  in  heaven  Clio,  on 
earth  History. 

I  saw  another  who  was  making  a  charm  for  two 
friends,  one  of  whom  was  going  to  the  East  Indies  : 
they  were  bitterly  lamenting  that  when  they  were 
parted  at  so  great  a  distance  from  each  other,  they 
could  no  longer  communicate  their  thoughts,  but 
must  be  cut  off  from  each  other's  society.  Pre- 
senting them  with  a  talisman  inscribed  with  four^and- 
twenty  black  marks,  "  Take  this,"  she  said  ;  "  I  have 
breathed  a  voice  upon  it  :  by  means  of  this  talisman 
you  shall  still  converse,  and  hear  one  another  as  dis- 
tinctly when  half  the  globe  is  between  you,  as  if  you 
were  talking  together  in  the  same  room.'1  The  two 
friends  thanked  her  for  such  an  invaluable  present, 
and  retired.     Her  name  was  Abracadabra. 

I  was  next  invited  to  see  a  whispering-gallery  of  a 
most  curious  and  uncommon  structure.  To  make 
the  experiment  of  its  powers,  a  young  poet  of  a  very 
modest  appearance,  who  was  stealing  along  in  a  re- 
tired walk,  was  desired  to  repeat  a  verse  in  it.  He 
applied  his  lips  to  the  wall,  and  whispered  in  a  low 
voice,  "  Rnra  miki  et  rigid  placeant  in  vallibus  am- 
nes."  The  sound  ran  along  the  walls  for  some  time 
in  a  kind  of  low  whisper  ;  but  every  minute  it  grew 
louder  and  louder,  till  at  length  it  was  echoed  and  re- 
echoed from  every  part  of  the  gallery,  and  seemed 
to  be  pronounced  by  a  multitude  of  voices  at  once, 
in  different  languages,  till  the  whole  dome  was  filled 
with  the  sound.  There  was  a  strong  smell  of  in- 
cense.    The  gallery  was  constructed  by  Fame. 

The  good  pilgrim  next  conducted  me  to  a  cave 
where  several  sorceresses,  very  black  and  grim,  were 
amusing  themselves  with  making  lightning,  thunder, 
and  earthquakes.  I  saw  two  vials  of  cold  liquor 
mixed  together,  and  flames  burst  forth  from  them 


TRUE    MAGICIAN^  7 

1  saw  some  ihs"igniiicant-Iooking  black  grains,  which 
would  throw  palaces  and  castles  into  the  air.  I  saw 
— and  it  made  my  hair  stand  on  end — a  headless 
man,  who  lifted  up  his  arm  and  grasped  a  sword.  I 
saw  men  flying  through  the  air,  without  wings,  over 
the  tops  of  towns  and  castles,  and  come  down  unhurt. 
The  cavern  was  very  black,  and  the  smoke  and  fires 
and  mephitic  blasts  and  sulphureous  vapours  that  is- 
sued from  it,  gave  the  whole  a  very  tremendous  ap- 
pearance. I  did  not  stay  long,  but  as  I  retired  I  saw 
Chemistry  written  on  the  walls  in  letters  of  flame,  with 
several  other  names  which  1  do  not  now  remember. 

My  companion  whispered  me  that  some  of  these 
were  suspected  of  communication  with  the  evil  genii, 
and  that  the  demon  of  War  had  been  seen  to  resort 
to  the  cave.  "  But  now,"  said  the  pilgrim,  "  1  will 
lead  you  to  enchanters  who  deserve  all  your  venera- 
tion, and  are  even  more  beneficent  than  those  you 
have  already  seen."  He  then  led  me  to  a  cavern  that 
opened  upon  the  sea  shore  :  it  blew  a  terrible  storm, 
the  waves  ran  mountains  high,  the  wind  roared,  and 
vessels  were  driven  against  each  other  with  a  terrible 
shock.  A  female  figure  advanced  and  threw  a  little 
oil  upon  the  waves  ;  they  immediately  subsided,  the 
winds  were  still,  the  storm  was  laid,  and  the  vessels 
pursued  their  course  in  safety.  "  By  what  magic  is 
this  performed  ?  "  exclaimed  I.  "  The  magician  is 
Meekness"  replied  my  conductor  :  "  she  can  smooth 
the  roughest  sea,  and  allay  the  wildest  storm." 

My  view  was  next  directed  to  a  poor  wretch,  who 
lay  groaning  in  a  most  piteous  manner,  and  crushed 
to  the  earth  with  a  mountain  on  his  breast ;  he  uttered 
piercing  shrieks,  and  seemed  totally  unable  to  rise  or 
help  himself.  One  of  these  good  magicians,  whose 
name  I  found  was  Patience,  advanced  and  struck  the 
mountain  with  a  wand  ;  on  which,  to  my  great  sur- 


8  TRUE    MAGICIANS. 

prise,  it  diminished  to  a  size  not  more  than  the  load 
of  an  ordinary  porter,  which  the  man  threw  over  his 
shoulders,  with  something  very  like  a  smile,  and  march- 
ed off  with  a  firm  step  and  very  composed  air. 

I  must  not  pass  over  a  charmer  of  a  very  pleasing 
appearance  and  lively  aspect.  She  possessed  the 
power  (a  very  useful  one  in  a  country  so  subject  to 
fogs  and  rains  as  this  is)  of  gilding  a  landscape  with 
sunshine  whenever  she  breathed  upon  it.  Her  name 
was  Cheerfulness.  Indeed  you  may  remember  that 
your  papa  brought  her  down  with  him  on  that  very 
rainy  day  when  we  could  not  go  out  at  all,  and  he 
played  on  his  flute  to  you,  and  you  all  danced. 

I  was  next  struck,  on  ascending  an  eminence,  with 
a  most  dreary  landscape.  All  the  flat  country  was 
one  stagnant  marsh.  Amidst  the  rushy  grass  lay  the 
fiend  Ague,  listless  and  shivering  :  on  the  bare  and 
bleak  hills  sat  Famine,  with  a  few  shells  of  acorns 
before  her,  of  which  she  had  eaten  the  fruit.  The 
woods  were  tangled  and  pathless  ;  the  howl  of  wolves 
was  heard.  A  few  smoky  huts,  or  caves,  not  much 
better  than  the  dens  of  wild  beasts,  were  all  the  hab- 
itations of  men  that  presented  themselves.  "  Miser- 
able country  ! "  I  exclaimed  ;  "  step-child  of  nature  !  " 
"  This,"  said  my  conductor,  "  is  Britain  as  our  ances- 
tors possessed  it."  "  And  by  what  magic,"  I  replied, 
"  has  it  been  converted  into  the  pleasant  land  we  now 
inhabit?"  "  You  shall  see,"  said  he.  "  It  has  been 
the  work  of  one  of  our  most  powerful  magicians. 
Her  name  is  Industry"  At  the  word  she  advanced 
and  waved  her  wand  over  the  scene.  Gradually  the 
waters  ran  oft'  into  separate  channels,  and  left  rich 
meadows  covered  with  innumerable  flocks  and  herds. 
The  woods  disappeared,  except  what  waxed  grace- 
fully on  the  tops  of  the  hills,  or  filled  up  the  unsightly 
hollows.      Wherever   she  moved  her  wand,  roads, 


TRUE    MAGICIANS.  9 

bridges,  and  canals  laid  open  and  improved  the  face 
of  the  country.  A  numerous  population,  spread  a- 
broad  in  the  fields,  were  gathering  in  the  harvest. 
Smoke  from  warm  cottages  ascended  through  the 
trees,  pleasant  towns  and  villages  marked  the  several 
points  of  distance.  Last,  the  Thames  was  filled  with 
forests  of  masts,  and  proud  London  appeared  with  all 
its  display  of  wealth  and  grandeur. 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  the  pleasure  I  re- 
ceived from  this  exhilarating  scene,  or  the  carriage 
having  just  got  upon  the  pavement,  which  awakened 
me  ;  but  I  determined  to  write  out  my  dream,  and 
advise  you  to  cultivate  your  acquaintance  with  all  the 
true  Arts  of  Magic. 


A  LECTURE  ON  THE  USE  OF  WORDS. 


My  dear  mamma,  who  worked  you  this  scarf?  it  is 
excessively  pretty. 

I  am  sorry  for  it,  my  dear. 

Sorry,  mamma  !  are  you  sorry  it  is  pretty  ? 

No,  but  I  am  sorry  if  it  is  excessively  pretty. 

Why  so  ? — a  thing  cannot  be  too  pretty,  can  it  ? 

If  so,  it  cannot  be  excessively  pretty.  Pray  what 
do  you  mean  by  excessively  pretty  ? 

Why,  excessively  pretty  means — it  means  very 
pretty. 

What  does  the  word  excessively  come  from  ? 
What  part  of  speech  is  it  ?  You  know  your  gram- 
mar ? 

It  is  an  adverb  :  the  words  that  end  in  ly  are  ad- 
verbs. 

Adverbs  are  derived  from  adjectives  by  adding  ly, 
you  should  have  said  ; — excessive,  excessively.  And 
what  is  the  noun  from  which  they  are  both  derived  .? 

Excess. 

And  what  does  excess  mean  ? 

It  means  too  much  of  any  thing. 

You  see  then  that  it  implies  a  fault,  and  therefore 
cannot  be  applied  as  a  commendation.  We  say  a 
man  is  excessively  greedy,  excessively  liberal ;  a  wo- 
man excessively  fine :  but  not  that  a  man  is  exces- 
sively wise,  a  woman  excessively  faithful  to  her  hus- 
band ;  because  in  these  there  is  no  excess  :  nor  is 
there  in  beauty,  that  being  the  true  and  just  proportion 
which  gives  pleasure. 

But  we  say  excessively  kind. 


ON    THE    USE    OF    WORDS.  11 

We  do,  because  kindness  has  its  limits.  A  person 
may  be  too  kind  to  us,  who  exposes  himself  to  a  great 
and  serious  inconvenience  to  give  us  a  slight  pleasure  : 
we  also  may  mean  by  it,  exceeding  that  kindness  which 
we  have  a  claim  to  expect.  But  when  people  use  it, 
as  they  often  do,  on  the  slightest  occasion,  it  is  cer- 
tainly as  wrong  as  excessively  pretty. 

But,  mamma,  must  we  always  consider  so  much 
the  exact  meaning  of  words  ?  Every  body  says  ex- 
cessively pretty,  and  excessively  tall,  and  infinitely 
obliged  to  you. — What  harm  can  it  do  ? 

That  every  body  does  it,  I  deny  ;  that  the  general- 
ity do  it,  is  very  true  ;  but  it  is  likewise  true,  that  the 
generality  are  not  to  be  taken  as  a  pattern  in  any 
thing.  As  to  the  harm  it  does, — in  the  first  place  it 
hurts  our  sincerity. 

Why,  it  is  not  telling  a  lie,  sure  ? 

Certainly  I  do  not  mean  to  say  it  is  ;  but  it  tends 
to  sap  and  undermine  the  foundations  of  our  integrity, 
by  making  us  careless,  if  not  in  the  facts  we  assert, 
yet  in  the  measure  and  degree  in  which  we  assert 
them.  If  we  do  not  pretend  to  love  those  we  have 
no  affection  for,  or  to  admire  those  we  despise,  at 
least  we  lead  them  to  think  we  admire  them  more  and 
love  them  better  than  we  really  do ;  and  this  prepares 
the  way  for  more  serious  deviations  from  truth.  So 
much  for  its  concern  with  morality  : — but  it  has  like- 
wise a  very  bad  effect  on  our  taste.  What,  think 
you,  is  the  reason  that  young  people,  especially,  run 
into  these  vague  and  exaggerated  expressions  ,? 

What  is  vague,  mamma  ? 

It  means  what  has  no  precise,  definite  signification. 
Young  people  run  into  these,  sometimes  indeed  from 
having  more  feeling  than  judgment,  but  more  com- 
monly from  not  knowing  how  to  separate  their  ideas 
and   tell  what  it  is  they  are   pleased  with.      They 


12  ON    THE    USE    OF    WORDS. 

either  do  not  know,  or  will  not  give  themselves  the 
trouble  to  mark,  the  qualities,  or  to  describe  the  scenes 
which  disgust  or  please  them,  and  hope  to  cover  their 
deficiency  by  these  overwhelming  expressions ;  as  if 
your  dress-maker,  not  knowing  your  shape,  should 
make  a  large  loose  frock,  that  would  cover  you  over 
were  you  twice  as  tall  as  you  are.  Now  you  would 
have  shown  your  taste,  if  in  commending  my  scarf  you 
had  said  that  the  pattern  was  light,  or  it  was  rich,  or 
that  the  work  was  neat  and  true  ;  but  by  saying  it  was 
excessively  pretty,  you  showed  you  had  not  consider- 
ed what  it  was  you  admired  in  it.  Did  you  never 
hear  of  the  countryman  who  said,  "There  will  be  mon- 
strous few  apples  this  year,  and  those  few  will  be  huge 
little."  Poets  run  into  this  fault  when  they  give  un- 
meaning epithets  instead  of  appropriate  description  ; — 
young  ladies,  when  in  their  letters  they  run  into  exag- 
gerated expressions  of  friendship. 

You  have  often  admired,  in  this  painting,  the  variety 
of  tints  shaded  into  one  another.  Well !  what  would 
you  think  of  a  painter  who  should  spread  one  deep 
blue  over  all  the  sky,  and  one  deep  green  over  the 
grass  and  trees  ?  would  not  you  say  he  was  a  dauber .? 
and  made  near  objects  and  distant  objects,  and  objects 
in  the  sun  and  objects  in  the  shade,  all  alike  ?  I  think 
I  have  some  of  your  early  performances  in  which 
you  have  coloured  prints  pretty  much  in  this  style  ; 
but  you  would  not  paint  so  now  ? 

No,  indeed. 

Then  do  not  talk  so  :  do  not  paint  so  with  words. 


1:3 


THE  PINE  AND  THE  OLIVE. 

A  FABLE. 


A  Stoic,  swelling  with  the  proud  consciousness  of 
his  own  worth,  took  a  solitary  walk  ;  and  straying 
amongst  the  groves  of  Academus,  he  sat  down  be- 
tween an  Olive  and  a  Pine  tree.  His  attention  was 
soon  excited  by  a  murmur  which  he  heard  among  the 
leaves.  The  whispers  increased  ;  and  listening  at- 
tentively, he  plainly  heard  the  Pine  say  to  the  Olive 
as  follows  :  "  Poor  tree  !  I  pity  thee  ;  thou  now 
spreadest  thy  green  leaves  and  exultest  in  all  the  pride 
of  youth  and  spring  ;  but  how  soon  will  thy  beauty 
be  tarnished  !  The  fruit  which  thou  exhaustest  thy- 
self to  bear,  shall  hardly  be  shaken  from  thy  boughs 
before  thou  shalt  grow  dry  and  withered  ;  thy  green 
veins,  now  so  full  of  juice,  shall  be  frozen  ;  naked 
and  bare,  thou  wilt  stand  exposed  to  all  the  storms  of 
winter,  whilst  my  firmer  leaf  shall  resist  the  change 
of  the  seasons.  Unchangeable  is  my  motto,  and 
through  the  various  vicissitudes  of  the  year  I  shall 
continue  equally  green  and  vigorous  as  I  am  at  pres- 
ent." 

The  Olive,  with  a  graceful  wave  of  her  boughs, 
replied  :  "  It  is  true  thou  wilt  always  continue  as  thou 
art  at  present.  Thy  leaves  will  keep  that  sullen  and 
gloomy  green  in  which  they  are  now  arrayed,  and  the 
stiff  regularity  of  thy  branches  will  not  yield  to  those 
storms  which  will  bow  down  many  of  the  feebler  ten- 
ants of  the  grove.  Yet  I  wish  not  to  be  like  thee.  I 
rejoice  when  nature  rejoices  ;  and  when  I   am  deso- 


14  THE  PINE  AND  THE  OLIVE. 

late,  nature  mourns  with  me.  I  fully  enjoy  pleasure- 
in  its  season,  and  I  am  contented  to  be  subject  to  the 
influences  of  those  seasons  and  that  economy  of  na- 
ture by  which  I  flourish.  When  the  spring  approach- 
es, I  feel  the  kindly  warmth  ;  my  branches  swell  with 
young  buds,  and  my  leaves  unfold  ;  crowds  of  singing 
birds  which  never  visit  thy  noxious  shade,  sport  on 
my  boughs ;  my  fruit  is  offered  to  the  gods  and  re- 
joices men  ;  and  when  the  decay  of  nature  approach- 
es, I  shed  my  leaves  over  the  funeral  of  the  falling 
year,  and  am  well  contented  not  to  stand  a  single  ex- 
emption to  the  mournful  desolation  I  see  everywhere 
around  me." 

The  Pine  was  unable  to  frame  a  reply  ;  and  the 
philosopher  turned  away  his  steps  rebuked  and  hum- 
bled. 


15 


ON  RIDDLES. 


MY  DEAR  YOUNG  FRIENDS, 

I  presume  you  are  now  all  come  home  for  the  holi- 
days, and  that  the  brothers  and  sisters  and  cousins, 
papas  and  mammas,  uncles  and  aunts,  are  all  met 
cheerfully  round  a  Christinas  fire,  enjoying  the  com- 
pany of  their  friends  and  relations,  and  eating  plum 
pudding  and  mince  pie.  These  are  very  good  things  ; 
but  one  cannot  always  be  eating  plum  pudding  and 
mince  pie  :  the  days  are  short,  and  the  weather  bad, 
so  that  you  cannot  be  much  abroad ;  and  I  think  you 
must  want  something  to  amuse  you.  Besides,  if  you 
have  been  employed  as  you  ought  to  be  at  school,  and 
if  you  are  quick  and  clever,  as  I  hope  you  are,  you 
will  want  some  employment  for  that  part  of  you  which 
thinks,  as  well  as  that  part  of  you  which  eats  ;  and 
you  will  like  better  to  solve  a  riddle  than  to  crack  a 
nut  or  walnut.  Finding  out  riddles  is  the  same  kind 
of  exercise  of  the  mind  which  running  and  leaping 
and  wrestling  in  sport  are  to  the  body.  They  are  of 
no  use  in  themselves, — they  are  not  work,  but  play  ; 
but  they  prepare  the  body,  and  make  it  alert  and  ac- 
tive for  any  thing  it  may  be  called  to  perform  in  la- 
bour or  war.  So  does  the  finding  out  of  riddles,  if 
they  are  good  especially,  give  quickness  of  thought, 
and  a  facility  of  turning  about  a  problem  every  way, 
and  viewing  it  in  every  possible  light.  When  Ar- 
chimedes coming  out  of  the  bath  cried  in  transport, 
"  Eureka  /"  (I  have  found  it !)  he  had  been  exercis- 
ing his  mind  precisely  in  the  same  manner  as  you  will 


16  ON  RIDDLES. 

do  when  you  are  searching  about  for  the  solution  of  a 
riddle. 

And  pray,  when  you  are  got  together,  do  not  let  any 
little  Miss  or  Master  say,  with  an  affected  air,  "  O  I 
do  not  ask  me ;  ]  am  so  stupid  I  never  can  guess." 
They  do  not  mean  you  should  think  them  stupid  and 
dull ;  they  mean  to  imply  that  these  things  are  too 
trifling  to  engage  their  attention.  If  they  are  employ- 
ed better,  it  is  very  well ;  but  if  not,  say,  "  I  am  very 
sorry  indeed  you  are  so  dull,  but  we  that  are  clever 
and  quick  will  exercise  our  wits  upon  these  ;  and  as 
our  arms  grow  stronger  by  exercise,  so  will  our  wits." 

Riddles  are  of  high  antiquity,  and  were  the  em- 
ployment of  grave  men  formerly.  The  first  riddle 
that  we  have  on  record  was  proposed  by  Sampson  at 
a  wedding  feast  to  the  young  men  of  the  Philistines, 
who  were  invited  upon  the  occasion.  The  feast  lasted 
seven  days  ;  and  if  they  found  it  out  within  the  seven 
days,  Sampson  was  to  give  them  thirty  suits  of  clothes 
and  thirty  sheets  ;  and  if  they  could  not  guess  it, 
they  were  to  forfeit  the  same  to  him.  The  riddle 
was ;  "  Out  of  the  eater  came  forth  meat,  and  out  of 
the  strong  came  forth  sweetness."  He  had  killed  a 
lion,  and  left  its  carcase  :  on  returning  soon  after,  he 
found  a  swarm  of  bees  had  made  use  of  the  skeleton 
as  a  hive,  and  it  was  full  of  honeycomb.  Struck  with 
the  oddness  of  the  circumstance,  he  made  a  riddle  of 
it.  They  puzzled  about  it  the  whole  seven  days,  and 
would  not  have  found  it  out  at  last  if  his  wife  had  not 
told  them. 

The  Sphinx  was  a  great  riddle-maker.  According 
to  the  fable,  she  was  half  a  woman  and  half  a  lion. 
She  lived  near  Thebes,  and  to  every  body  that  came 
she  proposed  a  riddle  ;  and  if  they  did  not  find  it  out, 
she  devoured  them.  At  length  (Edipus  came,  and 
she  a?ked  him,  "  What  is  that  animal  which  walk 


ON  RIDDLES.  17 

four  legs  in  the  morning,  two  at  noon,  and  three  at 
night?"  (Edipus  answered,  Man  : — in  childhood, 
which  is  the  morning  of  life,  he  crawls  on  his  hands 
and  feet ;  in  middle  age,  which  is  noon,  he  walks 
erect  on  two  ;  in  old  age  he  leans  on  a  crutch,  which 
serves  for  a  supplementary  third  foot. 

The  famous  wise  men  of  Greece  did  not  disdain  to 
send  puzzles  to  each  other.  They  are  also  fond  of 
riddles  in  the  East.  There  is  a  pretty  one  in  some 
of  their  tales. — "  What  is  that  tree  which  has  twelve 
brandies,  and  each  branch  thirty  leaves,  which  are  all 
black  on  one  side  and  white  on  the  other  ?  " — The 
tree  is  the  year  ;  the  branches  the  months  ;  the  leaves 
black  on  one  side  and  white  on  the  other  signify  day 
and  night.  Our  Anglo-Saxon  ancestors  also  had  rid- 
dles, some  of  wfeich  are  still  preserved  in  a  very  an- 
cient manuscript. 

A  riddle  is  a  description  of  a  thing  without  the 
name  ;  but  as  it  is  meant  to  puzzle,  it  appears  to 
belong  to  something  else  than  what  it  really  does, 
and  often  seems  contradictory  ;  but  when  you 
have  guessed  it,  it  appears  quite  clear.  It  is  a  bad 
riddle  if  you  are  at  all  in  doubt  when  you  have  found 
it  out  whether  you  are  right  or  no.  A  riddle  is  not 
verbal,  as  charades,  conundrums,  and  rebusses  are  : 
it  may  be  translated  into  any  language,  which  the 
others  cannot.  Addison  would  put  them  all  in  the 
class  of  false  wit  :  but  Swift,  who  was  as  great  a 
genius,  amused  himself  with  making  all  sorts  of  puz- 
zles ;  and  therefore  I  think  you  need  not  be  ashamed 
of  reading  them.  It  would  be  pretty  entertainment  for 
you  to  make  a  collection  of  the  better  ones, — for  ma- 
ny are  so  dull  that  they  are  not  worth  spending  time 
about.  I  will  conclude  by  sending  you  a  few  which 
will  be  new  to  you. 
2* 


IS 


ON    Il]J)DU>. 


I. 

I  often  murmur,  yet  I  never  weep ; 

I  always  lie  in  bed,  yet  never  sleep ; 

My  mouth  is  wide,  and  larger  than  my  head, 

And  much  disgorges  though  it  ne'er  is  fed  ; 

I  have  no  legs  or  feet,  yet  swiftly  run, 

And  the  more  falls  I  get,  move  faster  on. 

II. 

Ye  youths  and  ye  virgins,  come  list  to  my  tale, 

With  youth  and  with  beauty  my  voice  will  prevail. 

My  smile  is  enchanting,  and  golden  my  hair, 

And  on  earth  I  am  fairest  of  all  that  is  fair  ; 

But  my  name  it  perhaps  may  assist  you  to  tell, 

That  I  'm  banish'd  alike  both  from  heaven  and  hell. 

There  's  a  charm  in  my  voice,  't  is  than  music  more  sweet. 

And  my  tale  oft  repeated,  untired  I  repeat. 

I  flatter,  I  soothe,  I  speak  kindly  to  all, 

And  wherever  you  go,  I  am  still  within  call. 

Though  I  thousands  have  blest,  't  is  a  strange  thing  to  say, 

That  not  one  of  the  thousands  e'er  wishes  my  stay. 

But  when  most  I  enchant  him,  impatient  the  more, 

The  minutes  seem  hours  till  my  visits  is  o'er. 

In  the  chase  of  my  love  I  am  ever  employ'd, 

Still,  still  he  's  pursued,  and  yet  never  enjoy'd  ; 

O'er  hills  and  o'er  valleys  unwearied  I  fly, 

But  should  I  o'ertake  him,  that  instant  I  die  ; 

Yet  I  spring  up  again,  and  again  I  pursue, 

The  object  still  distant,  the  passion  still  new. 

Now  guess, — and  to  raise  your  astonishment  most, 

While  you  seek  me  you  have  me,  when  found  I  am  lost. 

III. 

I  never  talk  but  in  my  sleep  ; 
I  never  cry,  but  sometimes  weep  ; 
My  doors  are  open  day  and  night ; 
Old  age  I  help  to  better  sight ; 
I,  like  camelion,  feed  on  air, 
And  dust  to  me  is  dainty  fare. 


IV. 

We  are  spirits  all  in  white, 
On  a  field  as  black  as  night  ; 


ON    RIDDLE  S.  19 

There  we  dance  and  sport  and  play, 

Changing  every  changing  day  : 

Yet  with  us  is  wisdom  found, 

As  we  move  in  mystic  round. 

Mortal,  wouldst  thou  know  the  grains 

That  Ceres  heaps  on  Libya's  plains, 

Or  leaves  that  yellow  Autumn  strews, 

Or  the  stars  that  Herschel  views, 

Or  find  how  many  drops  would  drain 

The  wide-scooped  bosom  of  the  main, 

Or  measure  central  depths  below,-— 

Ask  of  us,  and  thou  shalt  know. 

With  fairy  feet  we  compass  round 

The  pyramid's  capacious  bound, 

Or  step  by  step  ambitious  climb 

The  cloud-capt  mountain's  height  sublime. 

Riches  though  we  do  not  use, 
'Tis  ours  to  gain,  and  ours  to  lose. 
From  Araby  the  Blest  we  came. 
In  every  land  our  tongue's  the  same  ; 
And  if  our  number  you  require, 
Go  count  the  bright  Aonian  quire. 
Wouldst  thou  cast  a  spell  to  find 
The  track  of  light,  the  speed  of  windj 
Or  when  the  snail  with  creeping  pace 
Shall  the  swelling  globe  embrace  j 
Mortal,  ours  the  powerful  spell  ;— 
Ask  of  us,  for  we  can  telL 


20 


THE  KING  IN  HIS  CASTLE. 


MY  DEAR  LUCY, 

Have  you  made  out  who  the  four  Sisters  are  ?  *  If 
you  have,  I  will  tell  you  another  story.  It  is  about  a 
monarch  who  lives  in  a  sumptuous  castle,  raised  high 
above  the  ground  and  built  with  exquisite  art.  He 
takes  a  great  deal  of  state  upon  him,  and,  like  East- 
ern monarchs,  transacts  every  thing  by  means  of  his 
ministers  ;  for  he  never  appears  himself,  and  indeed 
lives  in  so  retired  a  manner,  that  though  it  has  often 
excited  the  curiosity  of  his  subjects,  his-  residence  is 
hidden  from  them  with  as  much  jealous  care  as  that 
of  Pygmalion  was  from  the  Tynans  ;  and  it  has  never 
been  discovered  with  any  certainty  which  of  the 
chambers  of  the  castle  he  actually  inhabits,  though  by 
means  of  his  numerous  spies  he  is  acquainted  with 
what  passes  in  every  one  of  them. 

But  I  must  proceed  to  give  you  some  account  of 
his  chief  ministers  ;  and  I  will  begin  with  two  who 
are  mutes.  Their  office  is  to  bring  him  quick  and 
faithful  intelligence  of  all  that  is  going  forward  ;  this 
they  perform  in  a  very  ingenious  manner.  You  have 
heard  of  the  Mexicans,  who,  not  having  the  art  of 
writing,  supplied  the  deficiency  by  painting  even"  thing 
they  have  a  mind  to  communicate  ;  so  that  when  die 
Spaniards  came  amongst  them,  they  sent  regular  ac- 
counts to  the  king  of  their  landing  and  all  their  pro- 
ceedings, in  very  intelligible  language,  without  writing 
a  single  word.     Now  this  is  just  the  method  of  these 


*  See  this  piece  in  Evenings  at  Home. 


THE  KING  IN  HIS  CASTLE.  21 

two  mutes  ;  they  are  continually  employed  in  making 
pictures  of  every  thing  that  passes,  which  they  do 
with  wonderful  quickness  and  accuracy,  all  in  minia- 
ture, but  in  exact  proportion,  and  coloured  after  life. 
These  pictures  they  bring  every  moment  to  a  great 
gate  of  the  palace,  where  the  king  receives  them. 

The  next  I  shall  mention  are  two  drummers. 
These  have  each  a  great  drum,  on  which  they  beat 
soft  or  loud,  quick  or  slow,  according  to  the  occasion. 
They  often  entertain  the  king  with  music  ;  besides 
which  they  are  aiyived  at  such  wonderful  perfection 
upon  their  instrument,  and  make  the  strokes  with  such 
precision,  that  by  the  different  beats,  accompanied  by 
proper  pauses  and  intervals,  they  can  express  any 
thing  they  wish  to  tell  ; — and  the  king  relies  upon 
them  as  much  as  upon  his  mutes.  There  is  a  sort  of 
covered  way  made  in  the  form  of  a  labyrinth  from  the 
station  of  the  drummers  to  the  inner  rooms  of  the 
palace. 

There  is  a  pair  of  officers, — for  you  must  know,  the 
offices  go  mightily  by  pairs, — whose  department  it  is 
to  keep  all  nuisances  from  the  palace.  They  are 
lodged  for  that  purpose  under  a  shed  or  penthouse, 
built  with  that  view  before  the  front  of  the  palace  : 
they  likewise  gather  and  present  to  the  monarch  sweet 
odours,  essences,  and  perfumes,  with  which  he  regales 
himself  :  they  likewise  inspect  the  dishes  that  are 
served  up  at  his  table  ;  and  if  any  of  them  are  not 
fit  to  be  eaten,  they  give  notice  for  their  removal ;  and 
sometimes,  if  any  thing  offensive  is  about  to  enter  the 
palace,  they  order  the  agents  to  shut  two  little  doors 
which  are  in  their  keeping,  and  by  that  means  pre- 
vent its  entrance. 

The  agents  are  two  very  active  officers  of  long 
reach  and  quick  execution.  The  executive  part  of 
government  is  chiefly  intrusted  to  them  ;  they  obey 


22  THE  KING  IN  HIS  CASTLE. 

the  king's  commands  with  a  readiness  and  vigour  truly 
admirable  ;  they  defend  the  castle  from  all  assaults, 
and  are  vigilant  in  keeping  at  a  distance  every  annoy- 
ance. Their  office  is  branched  out  into  ten  subordi- 
nate ones,  but  in  cases  which  require  great  exertion 
they  act  together. 

I  must  not  omit  the  beef-eaters.  These  stand  in 
rows  at  the  great  front  gate  of  the  palace,  much  as 
they  do  at  St.  James's,  only  that  they  are  dressed  in 
white.  Their  office  is  to  prepare  the  viands  for  the 
king,  who  is  so  very  lazy  and  so  rn^ch  accustomed  to 
have  every  thing  done  for  him,  that,  like  the  king  of 
Bantam  and  some  other  Eastern  monarchs,  he  re- 
quires his  meat  to  be  chewed  before  it  is  presented 
to  him. 

Close  by  the  beaf-eaters  lives  the  king's  orator,  a 
fat  portly  gentleman,  of  something  a  Dutch  make,  but 
remarkably  voluble  and  nimble  in  his  motions  notwith- 
standing. He  delivers  the  king's  orders  and  explains 
his  will.  This  gentleman  is  a  good  deal  of  an  epi- 
cure, which  I  suppose  is  the  reason  he  has  his  station 
so  near  the  beef-eaters.  He  is  a  perfect  connoisseur 
in  good  eating,  and  assumes  a  right  of  tasting  all  the 
dishes  ;  and  the  king  pays  the  greatest  regard  to  his 
opinion.  Justice  obliges  me  to  confess  that  this  orator 
is  one  of  the  most  flippant  and  ungovernable  of  the 
king's  subjects. 

Among  the  inferior  officers  are  the  porters,  two 
stout  lusty  fellows  who  carry  the  king  about  from 
place  to  place  (for  I  am  sure  you  are  by  this  time  too 
well  acquainted  with  his  disposition  to  suppose  he  per- 
forms that  office  for  himself) ;  but  as  most  great  men's 
officers  have  their  deputies,  so  these  lazy  porters  are 
very  apt  to  get  their  business  done  by  deputy,  and  to 
have  people  to  carry  them  about. 


THE  KING  IN  HIS  CASTLE.  23 

1  should  never  have  have  done,  if  I  were  to  men- 
tion all  the  particulars  of  the  domestic  establishment 
and  internal  oeconomy  of  the  castle,  which  is  all  ar- 
ranged with  wonderful  art  and  order  ;  how  the  out- 
goings are  proportioned  to  the  income,  and  what  a 
fellow-feeling  there  is  between  all  the  members  of  the 
family  from  the  greatest  to  the  meanest.  The  king, 
from  his  high  birth,  on  which  he  values  himself  much, 
— being  of  a  race  and  lineage  quite  different  from 
any  of  his  subjects, — and  from  his  superior  capacity, 
claims  the  most  absolute  obedience  ;  though,  as  is 
frequently  the  case  with  kings,  he  is  in  fact  most  com- 
monly governed  by  his  ministers,  who  lead  him  where 
they  please  without  his  being  sensible  of  it. — As  you, 
my  dear  Lucy,  have  had  more  conversation  with  this 
king  than  most  of  your  age  have  been  honoured  with, 
t  day  say  you  will  be  at  no  loss  in  pointing  him  out. 
I  therefore  add  no  more  but  that  I  am 

Yours,  &ic. 


24 


ON  FEMALE  STUDIES. 


LETTER  1. 
MY  DEAR  YOUNG  FRIEND, 

If  I  had  not  been  afraid  you  would  feel  some  little 
reluctance  in  addressing  me  fust,  I  should  have  asked 
you  to  begin  the  correspondence  between  us  ;  for  I 
am  at  present  ignorant  of  your  particular  pursuits :  I 
cannot  guess  whether  you  are  climbing  the  hill  of 
science,  or  wandering  among  the  flowers  of  fancy  : 
whether  you  are  sketching  your  powers  to  embrace 
the  planetary  system,  or  examining  with  a  curious  eye 
the  delicate  veinings  of  a  green  leaf,  and  the  minute 
ramifications  of  a  sea-weed  ;  or  whether  you  are  toil- 
ing through  the  intricate  and  thorny  mazes  of  gram- 
mar. Whichever  of  these  is  at  present  your  employ- 
ment, your  general  aim  no  doubt  is  the  improvement 
of  your  mind  ;  and  we  will  therefore  spend  some  time 
in  considering  what  kind  and  degree  of  literary  at- 
tainments sit  gracefully  upon  the  female  character. 

Every  woman  should  consider  herself  as  sustaining 
the  general  character  of  a  rational  being,  as  we!1 
the  more  confined  one  belonging  to  the  female  sex ; 
and  therefore  the  motives  for  acquiring  general  knowl- 
edge and  cultivating  the  taste  are  nearly  the  same  to 
both  sexes.  The  line  of  separation  between  the 
studies  of  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman  appears 
to  me  to  be  chiefly  fixed  by  tills, — that  a  woman  i< 
excused  from  all  professional  knowledge.  Profession- 
i!   knowledge  means  all  that  is  necessary  to  fit  a  man 


ON  FEMALE  STUDIED.  25 

tor  a  peculiar  profession  or  business.  Thus  men  study 
in  order  to  qualify  themselves  for  the  law,  for  physic, 
for  various  departments  in  political  life,  for  instructing 
others  from  the  pulpit  or  the  professor's  chair.  These 
all  require  a  great  deal  of  severe  study  and  technical 
knowledge  ;  much  of  which  is  nowise  valuable  in  it- 
self, but  as  a  means  to  that  particular  profession. 
Now  as  a  woman  can  never  be  called  to  any  of  these 
professions,  it  is  evident  you  have  nothing  to  do  with 
such  studies.  A  woman  is  not  expected  to  under- 
stand the  mysteries  of  politics,  because  she  is  not 
called  to  govern  ;  she  is  not  required  to  know  anato- 
my, because  she  is  not  to  perform  surgical  operations ; 
she  need  not  embarrass  herself  with  theological  dis- 
putes, because  she  will  neither  be  called  upon  to  make 
nor  to  explain  creeds. 

Men  have  various  departments  in  active  life  ;  wo- 
men have  but  one,  and  all  women  have  the  same, 
differently  modified  indeed  by  their  rank  in  life  and 
other  incidental  circumstances.  It  is,  to  be  a  wife,  a 
mother,  a  mistress  of  a  family.  The  knowledge  be- 
longing to  these  duties  is  your  professional  knowledge, 
the  want  of  which  nothing  will  excuse.  Literary 
knowledge  therefore,  in  men,  is  often  an  indispensable 
duty  ;  in  women  it  can  be  only  a  desirable  accom- 
plishment. In  women  it  is  more  immediately  applied 
to  the  purposes  of  adorning  and  improving  the  mind, 
of  refining  the  sentiments,  and  supplying  proper  stores 
for  conversation.  For  general  knowledge  women 
have  in  some  respects  more  advantages  than  men. 
Their  avocations  often  allow  them  more  leisure  ;  their 
sedentary  way  of  life  disposes  them  to  the  domestic, 
quiet  amusement  of  reading  ;  the  share  they  take  in 
the  education  of  their  children  throws  them  in  the 
way  of  books.  The  uniform  tenor  and  confined  cir- 
cle of  their  lives  make  them  eager  to  diversify  th< 
3 


26  ON  FEMALE  STUDIES. 

scene  by  descriptions  which  open  to  them  a  new 
world  ;  and  they  are  eager  to  gain  an  idea  of  scenes 
on  the  busy  stage  of  life  from  which  they  are  shut  out 
by  their  sex.  It  is  likewise  particularly  desirable  for 
women  to  be  able  to  give  spirit  and  variety  to  conver- 
sation by  topics  drawn  from  the  stores  of  literature, 
as  the  broader  mirth  and  more  boisterous  gaiety  of 
the  other  sex  are  to  them  prohibited.  As  their  par- 
ties must  be  innocent,  care  should  be  taken  that  they 
do  not  stagnate  into  insipidity.  I  will  venture  to  add, 
that  the  purity  and  simplicity  of  heart  which  a  woman 
ought  never,  in  her  freest  commerce  with  the  world, 
to  wear  off;  her  very  seclusion  from  the  jarring  inter- 
ests and  coarser  amusements  of  society,  fit  her  in  a 
peculiar  manner  for  the  worlds  of  fancy  and  senti- 
ment, and  dispose  her  to  the  quickest  relish  of  what 
is  pathetic,  sublime,  or  tender.  To  you,  therefore, 
the  beauties  of  poetry,  of  moral  painting,  and  all  in 
general  that  is  comprised  under  the  term  of  polite  lit- 
erature, lie  particularly  open  ;  and  you  cannot  neglect 
them  without  neglecting  a  very  copious  source  of  en- 
joyment. 

Languages  are  on  some  accounts  particularly  adapt- 
ed to  female  study,  as  they  may  be  learnt  at  home 
without  experiments  or  apparatus,  and  without  inter- 
fering with  the  habits  of  domestic  life  ;  as  they  form 
the  style,  and  as  they  are  the  immediate  inlet  to  works 
of  taste.  But  the  learned  languages,  the  Greek  es- 
pecially, require  a  great  deal  more  time  than  a  young 
woman  can  conveniently  spare.  To  the  Latin  there 
is  not  an  equal  objection  ;  and  if  a  young  person  ha? 
leisure,  has  an  opportunity  of  learning  it  at  home  by 
being  connected  with  literary  people,  and  is  placed  in 
a  circle  of  society  sufficiently  liberal  to  allow  her  such 
an  accomplishment,  I  do  not  see,  if  she  has  a  strong 
inclination,  why  she  should  not  make  herself  mi-' 


ON  FEMALE  STUDIES.  27 

of  so  rich  a  store  of  original  entertainment  : — it  will 
not,  in  the  present  state  of  things,  excite  either  a  smile 
or  a  stare  in  fashionable  company.  To  those  who  do 
not  intend  to  learn  the  language,  I  would  strongly  re- 
commend the  learning  so  much  of  the  grammar  of  it 
as  will  explain  the  name  and  nature  of  cases,  genders,- 
inflection  of  verbs,  &c.  ;  of  which,  having  only  the 
imperfect  rudiments  in  our  own  language,  a  mere 
English  scholar  can  with  difficulty  form  a  clear  idea. 
This  is  the  more  necessary,  as  all  our  grammars,  be- 
ing written  by  men  whose  early  studies  had  given 
them  a  partiality  for  the  learned  languages,  are  form- 
ed more  upon  those  than  upon  the  real  genius  of  our 
own  tongue. 

I  was  going  now  to  mention  French,  but  perceive  I 
have  written  a  letter  long  enough  to  frighten  a  young 
correspondent,  and  for  the  present  I  bid  you  adieu. 


LETTER    II. 


French  you  are  not  only  permited  to  learn,  but 
you  are  laid  under  the  same  necessity  of  acquiring  it 
as  your  brother  is  of  acquiring  the  Latin.  Custom  has 
made  the  one  as  much  expected  from  an  accomplish- 
ed woman,  as  the  other  from  a  man  who  has  had  a 
liberal  education.  The  learning  French,  or  indeed 
any  language  completely,  includes  reading,  writing, 
and  speaking  it.  But  here  I  must  take  the  liberty  to 
offer  my  ideas,  which  differ  something  from  those  gen- 
erally entertained,  and  you  will  give  them  what  weight 
you  think  they  deserve.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  ef- 
forts of  young  ladies  in  learning  French  are  generally 
directed  to  what  is  unattainable ;  and  if  attained,  not 
very  useful, — the  speaking  it.      It  is  utterly  impossi- 


2$  ON  FEMALE  STUDIES, 

ble,  without  such  advantages  as  few  enjoy,  to  speak  | 
foreign  language  with  fluency  and  a  proper  accent ;. 
and  if  even  by  being  in  a  French  family  some  degree 
of  both  is  attained,  it  is  soon  lost  by  mixing  with  the 
world  at  large.  As  to  the  French  which  girls  are 
obliged  to  speak  at  boarding-schools,  it  does  very  well 
to  speak  in  England,  but  at  Paris  it  would  probably  be 
less  understood  than  English  itself. 

I  do  not  mean  by  this  to  say  that  the  speaking  of 
French  is  not  a  very  elegant  accomplishment ;  and  to 
those  who  mean  to  spend  some  time  in  France,  or 
who  being  in  very  high  life  often  see  foreigners  of  dis- 
tinction, it  may  be  necessary  ;  but  in  common  life  it  is 
very  little  so  :  and  for  English  people  to  meet  togeth- 
er to  talk  a  foreign  language  is  truly  absurd.  There 
is  a  sarcasm  against  this  practice  as  old  as  Chaucer's 
rime — 

"...  Frenche  she  spake  ful  fayre  and  fetisely. 
After  the  schole  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe, 
For  Frenche  of  Paris  was  to  her  unknowe." 

But  with  regard  to  reading  French,  the  many  charm- 
ing publications  in  that  language,  particularly  in  polite 
literature,  of  which  you  can  have  no  adequate  idea 
by  translation,  render  it  a  very  desirable  acquisition. 
YVriting  it  is  not  more  useful  in  itself  than  speaking, 
except  a  person  has  foreign  letters  to  write  ;  but  it  is 
necessary  for  understanding  the  language  grammati- 
cally and  fixing  the  rules  in  the  mind.  A  young  per- 
son who  reads  French  with  ease  and  is  so  well 
grounded  as  to  write  it  grammatically,  and  has  what  I 
should  call  a  good  English  pronunciation  of  it,  will  by 
a  short  residence  in  France  gain  fluency  and  die  ac- 
cent ;  whereas  one  not  grounded  would  soon  forget 
all  she  had  learned,  though  she  had  acquired  some 
fluency  in  speaking.     For  speaking,  therefore^  love 


ON  FEMALE  STUDIES.  29 

nut  cultivate  your  own  :  know  all  its  elegancies,  its 
force,  its  happy  turns  of  expression,  and  possess  your- 
self of  all  its  riches.  In  foreign  languages  you  have 
only  to  learn  ;  but  with  regard  to  your  own,  you  have 
probably  to  unlearn,  and  to  avoid  vulgarisms  and  pro- 
vincial barbarisms. 

If  after  you  have  learned  French  you  should  wish 
to  add  Italian,  the  acquisition  will  not  be  difficult.  It 
is  valuable  on  account  of  its  poetry,  in  which  it  far 
excels  the  French, — and  its  music.  The  other  mod- 
ern languages  you  will  hardly  attempt,  except  led  to 
diem  by  some  peculiar  bent. 

History  affords  a  wide  field  of  entertaining  and  use- 
ful reading.  The  chief  thing  to  be  attended  to  in 
studying  it,  is  to  gain  a  clear  well-arranged  idea  of 
facts  in  chronological  order,  and  illustrated  by  a 
knowledge  of  the  places  where  such  facts  happened. 
Never  read  without  tables  and  maps  :  make  abstracts 
of  what  you  read.  Before  you  embarrass  yourself  in 
the  detail  of  this,  endeavour  to  fix  well  in  your  mind  the 
arrangement  of  some  leading  facts,  which  may  serve 
as  landmarks  to  which  to  refer  the  rest.  Connect 
the  history  of  different  countries  together.  In  the 
study  of  history  the  different  genius  of  a  woman  I 
imagine  will  show  itself.  The  detail  of  battles,  the 
art  of  sieges,  will  not  interest  her  so  much  as  manners 
and  sentiment ;  this  is  the  food  she  assimilates  to 
herself. 

The  great  laws  of  the  universe,  the  nature  and 
properties  of  those  objects  which  surround  us,  it  is 
unpardonable  not  to  know  :  it  is  more  unpardonable 
to  know,  and  not  to  feel  the  mind  struck  with  lively 
gratitude.  Under  this  head  are  comprehended  nat- 
ural history,  astronomy,  botany,  experimental  philoso- 
phy, chemistry,  physics.  In  these  you  will  rather 
take  what  belongs  to  sentiment  and  to  utility  than  ab- 


30  ON  FEMALE  STUDIES. 

stract  calculations  or  difficult  problems.  You  must 
often  be  content  to  know  a  thing  is  so,  without  under- 
standing the  proof.  It  belongs  to  a  Newton  to  prove 
his  sublime  problems,  but  we  may  all  be  made  ac- 
quainted with  the  result.  You  cannot  investigate ; 
you  may  remember.  This  will  teach  you  not  to 
despise  common  things,  will  give  you  an  interest  in 
every  thing  you  see.  If  you  are  feeding  your  poul- 
try, or  tending  your  bees,  or  extracting  the  juice  of 
herbs,  with  an  intelligent  mind  you  are  gaining  real 
knowledge ;  it  will  open  to  you  an  inexhaustible  fund 
of  wonder  and  delight,  and  effectually  prevent  you 
from  depending  for  your  entertainment  on  the  poor 
novelties  of  fashion  and  expense. 

But  of  all  reading,  what  most  ought  to  engage  your 
attention  are  works  of  sentiment  and  morals.  Morals 
is  that  study  in  which  alone  both  sexes  have  an  equal 
interest  ;  and  in  sentiment  yours  has  even  the  advan- 
tage. The  works  of  this  kind  often  appear  under  the 
seducing  form  of  novel  and  romance  :  here  great  care, 
and  the  advice  of  your  older  friends  is  requisite  in  the 
selection.  Whatever  is  true,  however  uncouth  in  the 
manner  or  dry  in  the  subject,  has  a  value  from  being 
true  :  but  fiction  in  order  to  recommend  itself  must 
give  us  la  belle  Nature.  You  will  find  fewer  plays 
fit  for  your  perusal  than  novels,  and  fewer  comedies 
than  tragedies. 

What  particular  share  any  one  of  the  studies  I  have 
mentioned  may  engage  of  your  attention  will  he  de- 
termined by  your  peculiar  turn  and  bent  of  mind. 
But  I  shall  conclude  with  observing,  that  a  woman 
ought  to  have  that  general  tincture  of  them  all,  which 
marks  the  cultivated  mind.  She  ought  to  have  enough 
of  them  to  engage  gracefully  in  general  conversation. 
In  no  subject  is  she  required  to  be  deep, — of  none 
ought  she  to  be  ignorant.     If  she  knows  not  enough 


ON  FEMALE  STUDIES.  31 

to  speak  well,  she  should  know  enough  to  keep 
her  from  speaking  at  all  ;  enough  to  feel  her  ground 
and  prevent  her  from  exposing  her  ignorance  ;  enough 
to  hear  with  intelligence,  to  ask  questions  with  pro- 
priety, and  to  receive  information  where  she  is  not 
qualified  to  give  it.  A  woman  who  to  a  cultivated 
mind  joins  that  quickness  of  intelligence  and  delicacy 
of  taste  which  such  a  woman  often  possesses  in  a 
superior  degree,  with  that  nice  sense  of  propriety 
which  results  from  the  whole,  will  have  a  kind  of  tact 
by  which  she  will  be  able  on  all  occasions  to  discern 
between  pretenders  to  science  and  men  of  real  merit. 
On  subjects  upon  which  she  cannot  talk  herself,  she 
will  know  whether  a  man  talks  with  knowledge  of  his 
subject.  She  will  not  judge  of  systems,  but  by  their 
systems  she  will  be  able  to  judge  of  men.  She  will 
distinguish  the  modest,  the  dogmatical,  the  affected, 
the  over-refined,  and  give  her  esteem  and  confidence 
accordingly.  She  will  know  with  whom  to  confide 
the  education  of  her  children,  and  how  to  judge  of 
their  progress  and  the  methods  used  to  improve  them. 
From  books,  from  conversation,  from  learned  instruc- 
tors, she  will  gather  the  flower  of  every  science  ;  and 
her  mind,  in  assimilating  every  thing  to  itself,  will 
adorn  it  with  new  graces.  She  will  give  the  tone  to 
the  conversation  even  when  she  chooses  to  bear  but 
an  inconsiderable  part  in  it.  The  modesty  which 
prevents  her  from  an  unnecessary  display  of  what  she 
knows,  will  cause  it  to  be  supposed  that  her  knowledge 
is  deeper  than  in  reality  it  is  : — as  when  the  landscape 
is  seen  through  the  veil  of  a  mist,  the  bounds  of  the 
horizon  are  hid.  As  she  will  never  obtrude  her 
knowledge,  none  will  ever  be  sensible  of  any  defi- 
ciency in  it,  and  her  silence  will  seem  to  proceed  from 
discretion  rather  than  a  want  of  information.  She  will 
seem  to  know  every  thing  by  leading  every  one  to 


32  ON  FEMALE  STUDIED. 

speak  of  what  he  knows ;  and  when  she  is  with  those 
to  whom  she  can  give  no  real  information,  she  will  yet 
delight  them  by  the  original  turns  of  thought  and 
sprightly  elegance  which  will  attend  her  manner  of 
speaking  on  any  subject.  Such  is  the  character  to 
whom  profest  scholars  will  delight  to  give  information, 
from  whom  others  will  equally  delight  to  receive  it : — 
the  character  I  wish  you  to  become,  and  to  form 
which  your  application  must  be  directed. 


33 
THE  RICH  AND  THE  POOR. 

A    DIALOGUE. 


Mamma!  said  Harriet  Beechwood,  I  have  just 
heard  such  a  proud  speech  of  a  poor  man  !  you  would 
wonder  if  you  heard  it. 

Not  much,  Harriet;  for  pride  and  poverty  can 
very  well  agree  together  : — but  what  was  it  ? 

Why,  mamma,  you  know  the  charity-school  that 
Lady  Mary  has  set  up,  and  how  neat  the  girls  look  in. 
their  brown  stuff  gowns  and  little  straw  bonnets. 

Yes,  I  think  it  a  very  good  institution  ;  the  poor 
girls  are  taught  to  read  and  spell  and  sew,  and  what  is 
better  still,  to  be  good. 

Well,  mamma,  Lady  Mary's  gardener,  a  poor  man 
who  lives  in  a  cottage  just  by  the  great  house,  has  a 
little  girl ;  and  so,  because  she  was  a  pretty  little  girl, 
Lady  Mary  offered  to  put  her  into  this  school ; — and 
do  you  know  he  would  not  let  her  go  ! 

Indeed  ! 

Yes  :  he  dianked  her,  and  said,  "  I  have  only  one 
little  girl,  and  I  love  her  dearly  ;  and  though  I  am  a 
poor  man,  I  had  rather  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone 
than  she  should  wear  a  charity  dress." 

I  do  not  doubt,  my  dear  Harriet,  that  a  great  many 
people  will  have  the  same  idea  of  this  poor  man's  be- 
haviour which  you  have  ;  but  for  my  own  part,  I  am 
inclined  to  think  it  indicates  something  of  a  noble  and 
generous  spirit. 

Was  it  not  proud  to  say  she  should  not  wear  a 
charity  dress  ? 

Why  should  she  ? — would  you  wear  a  charity 
dress  ? 


•*4  THE  RICH  AND  THE  POOR. 

O,  mamma,  but  this  is  a  poor  man  ! 

He  is  able  to  pay  for  her  learning,  I  suppose ;  other- 
wise he  would  certainly  do  wrong  to  refuse  his  child 
the  advantage  of  instruction  because  his  feelings  were 
hurt  by  it. 

Yes,  he  is  going  to  put  her  to  Dame  Primmer's 
across  the  Green ;  she  will  have  half  a  mile  to  walk. 

That  will  do  her  no  hurt. 

But  he  is  throwing  his  money  away ;  for  he  might 
have  his  little  girl  taught  for  nothing  ;  and  as  he  is  a 
poor  man  he  ought  to  be  thankful  for  it. 

Pray  what  do  you  mean  by  a  poor  man  ? 

O,  a  man — those  men  that  live  in  poor  houses,  and 
work  all  day,  and  are  hired  for  it. 

I  cannot  tell  exactly  how  you  define  a  poor  house  : 
but  as  to  working,  your  papa  is  in  a  public  office,  and 
works  all  day  long,  and  more  hours  certainly  than  the 
labourer  does  ;  and  he  is  hired  to  it,  for  he  would  not 
do  the  work  but  for  the  salary  they  give  him. 

But  you  do  not  live  like  those  poor  people,  and 
you  do  not  wear  a  check  apron  like  the  gardener's 
wife. 

Neither  am  I  covered  with  lace  and  jewels  like  a 
duchess  :  there  is  as  much  difference  between  our 
manner  of  living  and  that  of  many  people  above  us  in 
fortune,  as  between  ours  and  this  gardener's  whom 
you  call  poor. 

What  is  being  poor  then  ?  is  there  no  such  thing  ? 

Indeed  I  hardly  know  how  to  answer  your  question  : 
rich  and  poor  are  comparative  terms  ;  and  provided  a 
man  is  in  no  want  of  the  necessaries  of  life  and  is  not 
in  debt,  he  can  only  be  said  to  be  poor  comparatively 
with  others,  of  whom  the  same  might  be  affirmed  by 
those  who  are  still  richer.  But  to  whatever  degree  of 
indigence  you  apply  the  term,  you  must  take  care 
not  to  confound  a  poor  man  with  a  pauper. 


THE  RICH  AND  THE  POOR.  35 

What  is  a  pauper  ?  I  thought  they  had  been  the 
same  thing  ? 

A  pauper  is  one  who  cannot  maintain  himself,  and 
who  is  maintained  by  the  charity  of  the  community. 
Your  gardener  was  not  a  pauper  ;  he  worked  for  what 
he  had,  and  he  paid  for  what  he  had  ;  and  therefore  he 
had  a  right  to  expect  that  his  child  should  not  be 
confounded  with  the  children  of  the  idle,  the  profli- 
gate, and  the  dissolute,  who  are  maintained  upon 
charity.  I  wish  the  lower  classes  had  more  of  this 
honourable  pride. 

Is  it  a  crime  to  be  a  pauper  ? 

To  be  a  pauper  is  often  the  consequence  of  vice  ; 
and  where  it  is  not,  it  justly  degrades  a  man  from  his 
rank  in  society.  If  the  gardener's  daughter  wTere  to 
wear  a  kind  of  charity  badge,  the  little  girls  she  plays 
with  would  consider  her  as  having  lost  her  rank  in 
society.  You  would  not  like  to  lose  your  rank,  and 
to  be  thrust  down  lower  than  your  proper  place  in  so- 
ciety. There  are  several  things  it  would  not  at  all  hurt 
you  to  do,  which  you  wTould  not  choose  to  do  on  this 
account.  For  instance,  to  carry  a  bandbox  through 
the  street ; — yet  it  would  not  hurt  you  to  carry  a  band- 
box ;  you  would  carry  a  greater  weight  in  your  gar- 
den for  pleasure. 

But  I  diought  gardeners  and  such  sort  of  people 
had  no  rank  ? 

That  is  a  very  great  mistake.  Eveiy  one  has  his 
rank,  his  place  in  society ;  and  so  far  as  rank  is  a 
source  of  honourable  pride,  there  is  less  difference  in 
rank  between  you  and  the  gardener,  than  between  the 
gardener  and  a  pauper.  Between  the  greater  part  of 
those  we  call  different  classes,  there  is  only  the  differ- 
ence of  less  and  more ;  the  spending  a  hundred,  or 
five  hundred,  or  five  thousand  a  year  ;  the  eating  off 
earthenware,  or  china,  or  plate  :   but  there  is  a  real 


•36  THE  RICH  AND  THE  POOR. 

and  essential  difference  between  the  man  who  provides 
for  his  family  by  his  own  exertions,  and  him  who  is  sup- 
ported by  charity.  The  gardener  has  a  right  to  stretch 
out  his  nervous  arm  and  say,  "  This  right  hand,  un- 
der Providence,  provides  for  myself  and  my  family  ;  I 
earn  what  I  eat,  I  am  a  burthen  to  no  one,  and  therefore 
if  I  have  any  superfluity  I  have  a  right  to  spend  it  as  I 
please,  and  to  dress  my  little  girl  to  my  own  fancy." 

But  do  you  not  think,  mamma,  that  a  brown  stuff 
gown  and  a  straw  bonnet  would  be  a  much  properer 
dress  for  the  lower  sort  of  people  than  any  thing 
gaudy?  If  they  are  much  dressed,  you  know,  we 
always  laugh  at  their  vulgar  finery. 

They  care  very  little  for  your  laughing  at  them ; 
they  do  not  dress  to  please  you. 

Whom  do  they  dress  to  please  ? 

Whom  do  you  dress  to  please  ? 

You,  my  dear  mamma,  and  papa. 

Not  entirely,  I  fancy  ; — you  tell  me  the  truth,  but 
not  the  whole  truth.  Well,  they  dress  to  please  their 
papas  and  mammas,  their  young  companions,  and  their 
sweethearts. 

I  have  often  heard  Lady  Selina  say,  that  if  all  the 
lower  orders  were  to  have  a  plain  uniform  dress,  it 
would  be  much  better  ;  and  that  if  a  poor  person  is 
neat  and  clean,  it  is  quite  enough. 

Better  for  whom  ? — enough  for  whom  ?  for  them- 
selves, or  for  us  ?  They  have  a  natural  love  of  orna- 
ment as  well  as  we  have.  It  is  true  they  can  do  our 
work  as  well  in  a  plainer  dress  ;  but  when  the  work  is 
done  and  the  time  of  enjoyment  comes, — in  the  dance 
on  the  green,  or  the  tea-party  among  their  friends, — 
who  shall  hinder  them  from  indulging  their  taste  and 
fancy,  and  laying  out  the  money  they  have  so  fairly 
earned  in  what  best  pleases  them  ? 

But  they  are  not  content  without  following  our  fash- 


THE  RICH  AND  THE  POOR.  3? 

ions ;  and  they  are  so  ridiculous  in  their  imitations  of 
them.  I  was  quite  diverted  to  see  Molly,  the  pastry- 
cook's girl,  tossing  her  head  about  in  a  hat  and  ribbon 
which  I  dare  say  she  thought  very  fashionable  ;  but 
such  a  caricature  of  the  mode — I  was  so  diverted. 

You  may  be  diverted  with  a  safer  conscience  when 
I  assure  you  that  the  laugh  goes  round.  London 
laughs  at  the  country,  the  court  laughs  at  the  city,  and 
I  dare  say  your  pastrycook's  girl  laughs  at  somebody 
who  is  distanced  by  herself  in  the  race  of  fashion. 

But  every  body  says,  and  I  have  heard  you  say, 
mamma,  that  the  kind  of  people  I  mean,  and  servants 
particularly,  are  very  extravagant  in  dress. 

That  unfortunately  is  true  :  they  very  often  are  so, 
and  when  they  marry  they  suffer  for  it  severely  ;  but 
do  not  you  think  many  young  ladies  are  equally  so  ? 
Did  you  not  see  at  your  last  dancing-school  ball  many 
a  girl  whose  father  cannot  give  her  a  thousand  pounds, 
covered  with  lace  and  ornaments  ? 

It  is  very  true. 

Are  not  duchesses  driven  by  extravagance  to  pawn 
their  plate  and  jewels  ? 

I  have  heard  so. 

The  only  security  against  improper  expense  is  dig- 
nity of  mind,  and  moderation  :  these  are  not  common 
in  any  rank  ;  and  I  do  not  know  why  we  should  ex- 
pect them  to  be  more  common  among  the  lower  and 
uneducated  classes  than  among  the  higher. — To  return 
to  your  gardener.  He  has  certainly  a  right  to  dress 
his  girl  as  he  pleases  without  asking  you  or  me  :  but 
I  shall  think  he  does  not  make  a  wise  use  of  that  right 
if  he  lays  out  his  money  in  finery,  instead  of  providing 
the  more  substantial  comforts  and  enjoyments  of  life. 
And  I  should  think  exactly  the  same  of  my  neighbour 
in  the  great  house  in  the  park. 

Have  servants  a  rank  ? 
4 


38  THE  RICH  AND  THE  POOR. 

Certainly  ;  and  you  will  find  them  very  tenacious 
of  it.  A  gentleman's  butler  will  not  go  behind  a 
coach  ;  a  lady's  maid  will  not  go  on  an  errand. 

Are  they  not  very  saucy  to  refuse  doing  it,  if  they 
are  ordered  ? 

No  ;  if  they  refuse  civilly.  They  are  hired  to  do 
certain  things,  not  to  obey  you  in  every  thing.  There 
are  many  ranks  above,  but  there  are  also  many  ranks 
below  them  ;  and  they  have  both  the  right  and  the 
inclination  to  support  their  place  in  society. 

But  their  masters  would  respect  them  the  more  if 
they  did  not  stand  upon  these  punctilios. 

But  I  have  told  you  it  is  not  our  approbation  they 
seek.  When  the  lower  orders  mix  with  the  higher, 
it  is  to  maintain  themselves  and  get  money  ;  and  if 
they  are  honest,  they  will  do  their  work  faithfully  : 
but  it  is  amongst  their  equals  that  they  seek  for  affec- 
tion, applause,  and  admiration  ;  and  there  they  meet 
with  it.  It  matters  very  little  in  what  rank  a  man  is, 
provided  he  is  esteemed  and  reckoned  a  man  of  con- 
sequence there.  The  feelings  of  vanity  are  exactly 
the  same  in  a  countess's  daughter  dancing  at  court, 
and  a  milkwoman  figuring  at  a  country  hop. 

But  surely,  mamma,  the  countess's  daughter  will 
be  more  really  elegant  ? 

That  will  depend  very  much  upon  individual  taste. 
However,  the  higher  ranks  have  so  many  advantages 
for  cultivating  taste,  so  much  money  to  lay  out  in 
decoration,  and  are  so  early  taught  the  graces  of  air 
and  manner  to  set  off  those  decorations,  that  it  would 
be  absurd  to  deny  their  superiority  in  this  particular. 
But  Taste  has  one  great  enemy  to  contend  with. 

What  is  that  ? 

Fashion, — an  arbitrary  and  capricious  tyrant,  who 
reigns  with  the  most  despotic  sway  over  that  depart- 
ment  which   Taste    alone   ought  to  regulate.     It  i< 


THE  RICH  AND  THE  POOR.  39 

Fashion  that  imprisons  the  slender  nymph  in  the  vast 
rotunda  of  the  hoop  and  loads  her  with  heavy  orna- 
ments, when  she  is  conscious,  if  she  dared  rebel,  she 
should  dance  lighter  and  look  better  in  a  dress  of  one 
tenth  part  of  the  price.  Fashion  sometimes  orders 
her  to  cut  off  her  beautiful  tresses,  and  present  the 
appearance  of  a  cropped  school-boy  ;  and  though  this 
is  a  sacrifice  which  a  nun  going  to  be  profest  looks 
upon  as  one  of  the  severest  she  is  to  make,  she  obeys 
without  a  murmur.  The  winter  arrives,  and  she  is 
cold  ;  but  Fashion  orders  her  to  leave  off  half  her 
clothes,  and  be  abroad  half  the  night.  She  complies, 
though  at  the  risk  of  her  life.  A  great  deal  more 
might  be  said  about  this  tyrant ;  but  as  we  have  had 
enough  of  grave  conversation  for  the  present,  we  will 
here  drop  the  subject. 


40 


DESCRIPTION 

OF 

A  CURIOUS  ANIMAL 

ATELY  FOUND  IN  THE  WILDS  OF  DERBYSHIRE. 


This  little  creature,  which  seems  a  very  beautiful 
specimen  of  the  species  to  which  it  belongs,  is  about 
the  size  of  a  common  monkey,  which  it  likewise  much 
resembles  in  its  agility  and  various  tricks.  The  eye 
is  very  lively,  wild,  and  roving  ;  teeth  white  and  sharp  ; 
body  covered  with  a  woolly  integument,  except  the 
head  and  fore  feet;  hair  rude  and  tangled,  hangs 
about  the  shoulders  and  covers  the  forehead  as  low  as 
the  eyes,  rest  of  the  face  naked  ;  skin  soft  and  white  ; 
cheeks  full  and  of  a  glowing  red  ;  under  lip  swelled 
and  pouting  ;  paws  white  with  streaks  of  brown  ; 
claws  long,  toes  of  the  hind  feet  joined  together. 

Habits. — This  animal  walks,  indifferently,  on  two 
or  on  four  feet,  feeds  itself  with  its  fore  feet,  makes  a 
chattering  noise,  climbs,  leaps,  and  runs,  and  has  a 
spring  in  its  muscles  equal  to  an  antelope ;  has  a  won- 
derful suppleness  in  its  limbs,  which  it  can  twist  into 
various  attitudes,  all  surprisingly  graceful ;  is  always 
in  motion,  except  when  basking  by  the  fire,  of  which 
it  is  very  fond  in  winter.  Will  often  shake  its  hair 
over  the  whole  face,  which  gives  it  a  look  of  peculiar 
wildness.  Is  very  good-natured  and  playful,  caressing 
to  its  keeper  and  every  one  who  takes  notice  of  it. 
Is  however  easily  put  in  a  passion,  and  when  angry 
makes  a  threatening  noise,  but  is  soon  put  to  flight  by 
the  least  show  of  resistance.     If  seized,  kicks  with  its 


DESCRIPTION  OF  A  CURIOUS  ANIMAL.  41 

-hind  legs  :  is  however  tolerably  docile,  considering 
how  lately  it  has  been  caught.  Feeds  on  fruits,  roots, 
or  flesh  ;  will  eat  cakes  or  nuts  out  of  the  hand.  To 
be  seen  at  the  Rev.  Mr.  B.'s  menagerie,  with  many 
other  young  animals  equally  curious. 

4* 


42 


ON  THE  CLASSICS. 


The  authors  known  by  the  name  of  the  Greek  and 
Roman  Classics  have  laid  the  foundation  of  all  that  is 
excellent  in  modern  literature  ;  and  are  so  frequently 
referred  to  both  in  books  and  conversation,  that  a  per- 
son of  a  cultivated  mind  cannot  easily  be  content 
without  obtaining  some  knowledge  of  them,  even 
though  he  should  not  be  able  to  read  them  in  their 
original  tongues.  A  clear  and  short  account  of  these 
authors  in  a  chronological  series,  together  with  a 
sketch  of  the  character  of  their  several  productions, 
for  the  use  of  those  who  have  either  none  or  a  very 
superficial  knowledge  of  the  languages  they  are  writ- 
ten in,  is,  as  far  as  I  know,  a  desideratum  which  it  is 
much  to  be  wished  that  some  elegant  scholar  should 
supply  :  in  the  mean  time  a  few  general  remarks  upon 
them  may  be  not  unacceptable. 

In  the  larger  sense  of  the  word,  an  author  is  called 
a  Classic  when  his  work  has  stood  the  test  of  time 
long  enough  to  become  a  permanent  part  of  the  liter- 
ature of  his  country.  Of  the  number  of  writings 
which  in  their  day  have  attained  a  portion  of  fame, 
very  few  in  any  age  have  survived  to  claim  this  hon- 
ourable distinction.  Every  circumstance  which  gave 
temporary  celebrity  must  be  forgotten;  party  must 
have  subsided ;  the  voice  of  friends  and  of  enemies 
must  be  silent ;  and  the  writer  himself  must  have  long 
mouldered  in  the  dust,  before  the  gates  of  immortality 
are  opened  to  him.  It  is  in  vain  that  he  attempts  to 
natter  or  to  soothe  his  contemporaries ;  they  are  not 
called  to  the  decision  ;  his  merits  are  to  be  determin- 
ed by  a  race  he  has  never  seen  ;  the  judges  are  not 


ON  THE  CLASSIC*. 

yet  born  who  are  to  pronounce  on  the  claims  of  Dar- 
win and  of  Cowper.  The  severe  impartiality  of  Pos- 
terity stands  aloof  from  every  consideration  but  that 
of  excellence,  and  from  her  verdict  there  is  no  ap- 
peal. 

It  is  true,  indeed,  that  amidst  the  revolutions  of 
ages,  particularly  before  the  invention  of  printing, 
accidental  circumstances  must  often  have  had  great 
influence  in  the  preservation  of  particular  writings  : 
and  we  know  and  lament  that  many  are  lost  which 
the  learned  world  would  give  treasures  of  gold  to  re- 
cover. But  it  cannot  easily  happen  that  a  work 
should  be  preserved  without  superior  merit ;  and  in- 
deed we  know  from  the  testimony  of  antiquity,  that 
the  works  which  have  come  down  to  us,  and  which 
we  read  and  admire,  are  in  general  the  very  works 
which  by  the  Greeks  and  Romans  themselves  were 
esteemed  most  excellent. 

It  is  impossible  to  contemplate  without  a  sentiment 
of  reverence  and  enthusiasm,  these  venerable  writ- 
ings which  have  survived  the  wreck  of  empires ;  and, 
what  is  more,  of  languages  ;  which  have  received  the 
awful  stamp  of  immortality,  and  are  crowned  with  the 
applause  of  so  many  successive  ages.  It  is  wonder- 
ful that  words  should  live  so  much  longer  than  marble 
temples; — words,  which  at  first  are  only  uttered  breath ; 
and,  when  aftrwards  enshrined  and  fixed  in  a  visible 
form  by  the  admirable  invention  of  writing,  committed  to 
such  frail  and  perishable  materials  :  yet  the  light  pa- 
per bark  floats  down  the  stream  of  time,  and  lives 
through  the  storms  which  have  sunk  so  many  stronger 
built  vessels.  Homer  is  read,  though  The  grass  now 
grows  where  Troy  town  stood :  and  nations  once  de- 
spised as  barbarous  appreciate  the  merit  of  Cicero's 
orations  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames,  when  the  long 


44  ON  THE  CLASSICS. 

honours  of  the  consulate  are  vanished,  and  the  lan- 
guage of  Rome  is  no  longer  spoken  on  the  shores  of 
the  Tiber. 

Still  green  with  bays  each  ancient  altar  stands, 

Above  the  reach  of  sacrilegious  hands  -, 

Secure  from  flames,  from  envy's  fiercer  rage, 

Destructive  war  and  all-involving  age. 

See  from  each  clime  the  learn'd  their  incense  bring, 

Hear  in  all  tongues  consenting  Paeans  ring  ! 

It  is  owing  to  the  preservation  of  a  few  books  of 
the  kind  we  are  speaking  of,  that  at  the  revival  of  let- 
ters the  world  had  not  to  go  back  to  the  very  begin- 
nings of  science.  When  the  storm  of  barbaric  rage 
had  past  over  and  spent  itself,  they  were  drawn  from 
the  mould  of  ruins  and  dust  of  convents,  and  were  of 
essential  service  in  forming  our  taste  and  giving  a  di- 
rection to  the  recovered  energies  of  the  human  mind. 
Oral  instruction  can  benefit  but  one  age  and  one  set 
of  hearers ;  but  these  silent  teachers  address  all  ages 
and  all  nations.  They  may  sleep  for  a  while  and  be 
neglected  ;  but  whenever  the  desire  of  information 
springs  up  in  the  human  breast,  there  they  are  with 
their  mild  wisdom  ready  to  instruct  and  please  us. 
The  Philosopher  opens  again  his  school ;  his  maxims 
have  lost  nothing  of  their  truth  :  the  harmony  of  the 
Poet's  numbers,  though  locked  up  for  a  time,  be- 
comes again  vocal ;  and  we  find  that  what  was  nature 
and  passion  two  thousand  years  ago,  is  nature  and 
passion  still. 

Books  are  a  kind  of  perpetual  censors  on  men  and 
manners  ;  they  judge  without  partiality,  and  reprove 
without  fear  or  affection.  There  are  times  when  the 
flame  of  virtue  and  liberty  seems  almost  to  be  extinguish- 
ed amongst  the  existing  generation  ;  but  their  animat- 
ed pages  are  always  at  hand  to  rekindle  it.  The  D 
pot  trembles  on  his  throne,  and  the  bold  bad  man  turns 


ON  THE  CLASSICS.  45 

pale  in  his  closet  at  the  sentence  pronounced  against 
him  ages  before  he  was  born. 

In  addition  to  their  intrinsic  value,  there  is  much 
incidental  entertainment  in  consulting  authors  who 
flourished  at  so  remote  a  period.  Every  little  cir- 
cumstance becomes  curious  as  we  discover  allusions 
to  customs  now  obsolete,  or  draw  indications  of  the 
temper  of  the  times  from  the  various  slight  hints  and 
casual  pieces  of  information  which  may  be  gathered 
up  by  the  ingenious  critic.  Sometimes  we  have  the 
pleasure  of  being  admitted  into  the  cabinet  of  a  great 
man,  and  leaning  as  it  were  over  his  shoulder  while 
he  is  pouring  himself  out  in  the  freedom  of  a  confi- 
dential intercourse  which  was  never  meant  to  meet  the 
eye  even  of  his  contemporaries.  At  another  time  we 
are  delighted  to  witness  the  conscious  triumph  of  a 
genius  who,  with  a  generous  confidence  in  his  powers, 
prophesies  his  own  immortality,  and  to  feel  as  we  read 
that  his  proud  boast  has  not  been  too  presumptuous. 
Another  advantage  of  reading  the  ancients  is,  that  we 
trace  the  stream  of  ideas  to  their  spring.  It  is  always 
best  to  go  to  the  fountain  head.  We  can  never  have 
a  just  idea  of  the  comparative  merit  of  the  moderns, 
without  knowing  how  much  they  have  derived  from 
imitation.  It  is  amusing  to  follow  an  idea  from  cen- 
tury to  century,  and  observe  the  gradual  accession  of 
thought  and  sentiment  ;  to  see  the  jewels  of  the  an- 
cients new  set,  and  the  wit  of  Horace  sparkling  with 
additional  lustre  in  the  lines  of  Pope. 

The  real  sources  of  History  can  only  be  known 
by  some  acquaintance  with  the  original  authors. 
This  indeed  will  often  be  found  to  betray  the  defi- 
ciency of  our  documents,  and  the  difficulty  of  re- 
conciling jarring  accounts.  It  will  sometimes  un- 
clothe and  exhibit  in  its  original  barrenness  what  the  art 
of  the  moderns  has  drest  up  and  rounded  into  form. 
It  will  show  the  unsightly  chasms  and  breaks  which 


46  ON  THE  CLASSICS. 

the  modern  compiler  passes  over  with  a  light  foot • 
and  perhaps  make  us  sceptical  with  regard  to  many 
particulars  of  which  we  formerly  thought  we  had  au- 
thentic information.  But  it  is  always  good  to  know 
the  real  measure  of  our  knowledge.  That  knowl- 
edge would  be  greater,  if  the  treasures  of  antiquity 
had  come  to  us  undiminished  :  but  this  is  not  the 
case.  Besides  the  loss  of  many  mentioned  with  hon- 
or by  their  contemporaries,  few  authors  are  come 
down  to  us  entire  ;  and  of  some  exquisite  productions 
only  fragments  are  extant.  The  full  stream  of  narra- 
tion is  sometimes  suddenly  cheeked  at  the  most  inter- 
esting period,  and  the  sense  of  a  brilliant  passage  is 
clouded  by  the  obscurity  of  a  single  word.  The  lite- 
rary productions  are  come  to  us  in  a  similar  state  with 
the  fine  statues  of  antiquity  :  of  which  some  have  lost 
an  arm,  others  a  leg  ;  some  a  little  finger  only  :  scarce 
any  have  escaped  some  degree  of  mutilation  ;  and 
sometimes  a  trunk  is  dug  up  so  shorn  of  its  limbs, 
that  the  antiquaries  are  puzzled  to  make  out  to  what 
god  or  hero  it  originally  belonged.  To  the  frequent 
loss  of  part  of  an  author  must  be  added  the  difficulty 
of  deciphering  what  remains. 

Ancient  manuscripts  are  by  no  means  easy  to  read. 
You  are  not  to  imagine,  when  you  see  a  fair  edition 
of  Virgil,  or  Horace,  divided  into  verses  and  accurate- 
ly pointed,  that  you  see  it  in  any  thing  like  its  original 
state.  The  oldest  manuscripts  are  written  wholly  in 
capitals,  and  without  any  separation  of  letters  into 
words.  Passing  through  many  hands,  they  have  suf- 
fered from  the  mistakes  or  carelessness  of  transcrib- 
ers ;  by  which  so  great  an  obscurity  is  thrown  on 
many  passages,  that  very  often  he  who  makes  the 
happiest  guess  is  the  best  commentator.  But  this 
very  obscurity  has  usefully  exercised  the  powers  of 
the   human  mind.     It  became  a  great  object,  at  the. 


ON    THE    CLASSICS.  47 

revival  of  letters,  to  compare  different  readings  ;  to 
elucidate  a  text  by  pantile]  passages  ;  to  supply  by 
probable  conjecture  what  was  necessary  to  make  an 
author  speak  sense  ;  and  by  every  possible  assistance 
of  learning  and  sound  criticism,  together  with  typo- 
graphical advantages,  to  restore  the  beauty  and  splen- 
dour of  the  classic  page.  Verbal  criticism  was  at 
that  time  of  great  and  real  use  ;  and  those  who  are 
apt  to  undervalue  it,  are  little  aware  how  much  labour 
was  requisite  to  reduce  the  confused  or  mutilated 
work  of  a  thousand  years  back  to  form  and  order. 

Tins  task  was  well  fitted  for  an  age  recently  emerg- 
ed out  of  barbarism.  The  enthusiastic  admiration 
with  which  men  were  struck  on  viewing  the  master- 
pieces of  human  genius,  and  even  the  superstitious 
veneration  with  winch  they  regarded  every  thing  be- 
longing to  them,  tended  to  form  their  taste  by  a 
quicker  process  than  if  they  had  been  left  to  make 
the  most  of  their  own  abilities.  By  degrees  the 
moderns  felt  their  own  powers  ;  they  learned  to  imi- 
tate, and  perhaps  to  excel  what  before  they  idolized. 
But  a  considerable  period  had  passed  before  any  of 
the  modern  languages  were  thought  worthy  of  being 
the  vehicle  of  the  discoveries  of  science  or  even  of 
the  effusions  of  fancy.  Christianity  did  not,  as  might 
have  been  expected,  bring  into  discredit  the  pagan 
philosophy.  Aristotle  reigned  in  the  schools,  where 
he  was  regarded  with  a  veneration  fully  equal  to  what 
was  expressed  for  the  sainted  fathers  of  the  church ; 
and  as  to  the  mythology  of  the  ancients,  it  is  so  beau- 
tiful that  all  our  earlier  poetry  has  been  modelled  upon 
it.  Even  yet,  the  predilection  for  the  Latin  language 
is  apparent  in  our  inscriptions,  in  the  public  exercises 
of  our  schools  and  universities,  and  the  general  bent 
of  the  studies  of  youth.  In  short,  all  our  knowledge 
and  all  our  taste  has  been  built  upon  the  foundation  of 


48  ON    THE    CLASSICS. 

the  ancients ;  and  without  knowing  what  they  have 
done,  we  cannot  estimate  rightly  the  merit  of  our  own 
authors. 

It  may  naturally  be  asked,  why  the  Greek  and  Ro- 
man writers  alone  are  called  by  the  name  of  Classics. 
It  is  true  the  Hebrew  might  be  esteemed  so,  if  we 
did  not  receive  them  upon  a  higher  ground  of  merit. 
As  to  the  Persian  and  Arabic  with  other  languages  of 
countries  once  highly  cultivated,  their  authors  are  not 
taken  into  the  account,  partly  because  they  are  under- 
stood by  so  few,  and  partly  because  their  idioms  and 
modes  of  expression,  if  not  of  feeling,  are  so  remote 
from  ours  that  we  can  scarcely  enter  into  their  merits. 
Their  writings  are  comprehended  under  the  name  of 
Oriental  literature.  It  has  been  more  cultivated  of 
late,  particularly  by  Sir  William  Jones ;  and  our  East 
India  possessions  will  continue  to  draw  our  attention 
that  way  :  but  curiosity  is  gratified  rather  than  taste. 
We  are  pleased  indeed  with  occasional  beauties, 
sometimes  a  pure  maxim  of  morality  and  sometimes 
a  glowing  figure  of  speech  ;  but  they  do  not  enter  into 
the  substance  of  the  mind,  which  ever  must  be  fed 
and  nourished  by  the  classic  literature  of  Greece  and 
Rome. 

I  shall  subjoin  a  few  specimens  of  the  mythological 
stories  of  the  ancients. 


ATALANTA. 


Atalanta  was  a  beautiful  young  woman,  exceed- 
ingly swift  of  foot.  She  had  many  lovers ;  but  she 
resolved  not  to  marry  till  she  could  meet  with  one 
who  should  conquer  her  in  running.     A  great  many 


0N    THE    CLASSICS.  49 

young  men  proposed  themselves,  and  lost  their  lives ; 
for  the  conditions  were,  that  if  they  were  overcome  in 
the  race  they  should  be  put  to  death.  At  length  she 
was  challenged  by  Hippomenes,  a  brave  and  hand- 
some youth.  "  Do  you  know,"  said  Atalanta,  "  that 
nobody  has  yet  been  found  who  excels  me  in  swift- 
ness, and  that  you  must  be  put  to  death  if  you  do  not 
win  the  race  ?  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  any  more 
young  men  put  to  death." — "  I  am  not  afraid,"  said 
Hippomenes ;  "  I  think  I  shall  win  the  race  and  win 
you  too." 

So  the  ground  was  marked  out  and  the  day  ap- 
pointed, and  a  great  number  of  spectators  gathered 
together  ;  and  Atalanta  stood  with  her  garments  tuck- 
ed up,  and  Hippomenes  by  her,  waiting  impatiently 
for  the  signal.  At  length  it  was  given  ;  and  immedi- 
ately they  both  started  at  the  same  instant,  and  ran 
with  their  utmost  speed  across  the  plain.  But  Ata- 
lanta flew  like  the  wind,  and  soon  outstripped  the 
young  man.  Then  Hippomenes  drew  from  his  vest 
a  golden  apple,  which  had  been  given  him  by  Venus 
from  the  gardens  of  the  Hesperides,  and  threw  it  from 
him  with  all  his  force.  The  virgin  saw  it  glittering 
as  it  rolled  across  the  plain,  and  ran  out  of  the  course 
to  pick  it  up.  While  she  was  doing  so,  Hippomenes 
passed  her,  and  the  spectators  shouted  for  joy.  How- 
ever, Atalanta  redoubled  her  speed,  soon  overtook 
Hippomenes,  and  again  got  before  him.  Upon  this, 
"Hippomenes  produced  another  golden  apple,  and 
threw  it  as  before.  It  rolled  a  great  way  out  of  the 
course,  and  the  virgin  was  thrown  very  far  behind  by 
picking  it  up.  She  had  great  difficulty  this  time  to 
recover  her  lost  ground,  and  the  spectators  shouted 
"  Hippomenes  will  win  !  Hippomenes  will  win  ! "  But 
Atalanta  was  so  light,  so  nimble,  and  exerted  herself 
so  much,  that  at  length  she  passed  him  as  before,  and 
5 


50  ON    THE    CLASSICS. 

flew  as  if  she  had  wings  towards  the  goal.  And  now 
she  had  but  a  little  way  to  run  ;  and  the  people  said, 
"  Poor  Hippomenes  !  he  will  lose  after  all,  and  be  put 
to  death  like  the  rest ; — see,  see  how  she  gains 
ground  of  him  !  how  near  the  goal  she  is !  Atalanta 
will  win  the  race."  Then  Hippomenes  took  another 
golden  apple, — it  was  the  last  he  had,  and  prayed  to 
Venus  to  give  him  success,  and  threw  it  behind  him. 
Atalanta  saw  it,  and  considered  a  moment  whether 
she  should  venture  to  delay  herself  again  by  picking 
it  up.  She  knew  she  ran  the  risk  of  losing  the  race, 
but  she  could  not  withstand  the  beautiful  glittering  of 
the  apple  as  it  rolled  along  ;  and  she  said  to  herself, 
"  I  shall  easily  overtake  Hippomenes,  as  I  did  be- 
fore." But  she  was  mistaken ;  for  they  had  now  so 
little  a  way  to  run,  that  though  she  skimmed  along  the 
plain  like  a  bird,  and  exerted  all  her  strength,  she 
was  too  late.  Hippomenes  reached  the  goal  before 
her  :  she  was  obliged  to  own  herself  conquered,  and 
to  marry  him  according  to  the  agreement. 


ARION. 


Arion  was  a  poet  of  Lesbos,  who  sung  his  own 
verses  to  his  harp.  He  had  been  a  good  while  at  the 
court  of  Periander,  tyrant  of  Corinth,  and  had  acquir- 
ed great  riches,  with  which  he  was  desirous  to  return 
to  his  native  country.  He  therefore  made  an  agree- 
ment with  a  captain  of  a  ship  to  carry  him  to  Mitylene 
in  Lesbos,  and  they  set  sail.  But  the  captain  and 
crew,  tempted  by  the  wealth  which  he  had  on  board, 
determined  to  seize  his  gold  and  throw  him  into  the  sea. 
When  poor  Arion  heard  their  cruel  intention,  he  sub- 


ON    THE    CLASSICS.  51 

mitted  to  his  fate,  for  he  knew  he  could  not  resist,  and 
only  begged  they  would  allow  him  to  give  them  one 
tune  upon  his  harp  before  he  died.  This  they  com- 
plied with  ;  and  Arion,  standing  on  the  deck,  drew 
from  his  harp  such  melodious  strains,  accompanied 
with  such  moving  verses,  that  any  body  but  these 
cruel  sailors  would  have  been  touched  with  them. 
When  he  had  finished  they  threw  him  into«#e  sea, 
where  they  supposed  he  was  swallowed  up  ;  but  that 
was  not  the  case  ;  for  a  dolphin,  which  had  been  drawn 
towards  the  ship  by  the  sweetness  of  Arion's  voice, 
swam  to  him,  took  him  gently  upon  his  back,  convey- 
ed him  safely  over  the  waves,  and  landed  him  at 
Trenara,  whence  he  returned  to  Periander.  Periander 
was  very  much  surprised  to  see  him  come  again  in 
such  a  forlorn  and  destitute  condition,  and  asked  him 
the  reason.  Arion  told  his  story.  Periander  bade 
him  conceal  himself  till  the  sailors  should  return  from 
their  voyage,  and  he  would  do  him  justice.  When 
the  ship  returned  from  its  voyage,  Periander  ordered 
the  sailors  to  be  brought  before  him,  and  asked  them 
what  they  had  done  with  Arion.  They  said  he  had 
died  during  the  voyage,  and  that  they  had  buried  him. 
Then  Periander  ordered  Arion  to  appear  before  them 
in  the  clothes  he  wore  when  they  cast  him  into  the 
sea.  At  this  plain  p-oof  of  their  guilt  they  were  quite 
confounded,  and  Periander  put  them  all  to  death. 
It  is  said  further,  that  the  dolphin  was  taken  up  into 
the  heavens  and  turned  into  a  constellation. — It  is  a 
small  constellation,  of  moderate  brightness,  and  has 
four  stars  in  the  form  of  a  rhombus  ;  you  will  find  it 
south  of  the  Swan,  and  a  little  west  of  the  bright  star 
AJcair. 


ON    THE    CLASSICS. 


VENUS    AND    ADONIS. 

The  goddess  Venus  loved  Adonis,  a  mortal.  Beau- 
tiful Venus  loved  the  beautiful  Adonis.  She  often 
said  to  him,  "  O  Adonis  !  be  content  to  lie  crowned 
with  flowers  by  the  fresh  fountains,  and  to  feed  upon 
honey  and  nectar,  and  to  be  lulled  to  sleep  by  the 
warbling  of  birds  ;  and  do  not  expose  your  life  by 
hunting  the  tawny  lion  or  the  tusky  boar,  or  any  sav- 
age beast.  Take  care  of  that  life,  which  is  so  dear 
to  Venus  !  "  But  Adonis  would  not  listen  to  her.  He 
loved  to  rise  early  in  the  morning  while  the  dew  was 
upon  the  grass,  and  to  beat  the  thickets  with  his  well- 
trained  hounds,  whose  ears  swept  the  ground.  With 
his  darts  he  pierced  the  nimble  fawns  and  the  kids 
with  budding  horns,  and  brought  home  the  spoil  upon 
his  shoulders.  But  one  day  he  wounded  a  fierce 
bristly  boar ;  the  arrow  stuck  in  his  side,  and  made 
the  animal  mad  with  pain :  he  rushed  upon  Adonis, 
and  gored  his  thigh  with  his  sharp  tusks.  Beautiful 
Adonis  fell  to  the  ground  like  a  lilly  that  is  rooted  up 
by  a  sudden  storm  :  his  blood  flowed  in  crimson 
streams  down  his  fair  side  ;  and  his  eyelids  closed, 
and  the  shades  of  death  hovered  over  his  pale  brow. 

In  the  mean  time  the  evening  came  on,  and  Venus 
had  prepared  a  garland  of  fresh  leaves  and  flowers  to 
bind  around  the  glowing  temples  of  Adonis  when  he 
should  come  hot  and  tired  from  the  chase,  and  a 
couch  of  rose-leaves  to  rest  his  weary  limbs  :  and  she 
said,  "  Why  does  not  Adonis  come  !  Return,  Adonis  ! 
let  me  hear  the  sound  of  your  feet  !  let  me  hear  the 
voice  of  your  dogs  !  let  them  lick  my  hands,  and 
make  me  understand  that  their  master  is  approach- 
ing !  " — But  Adonis  did  not  return  ;  and  the  dark 
night  came,  and  the  rosy  morning   appeared  again, 


ON    THE    CLASSICS.  5o 

and  still  he  did  not  appear.  Then  Venus  sought  him 
in  the  plains  and  through  the  thickets,  and  amidst  the 
rough  brakes  ;  and  her  veil  was  torn  with  the  thorns, 
and  her  feet  bruised  and  bleeding  with  the  sharp 
pebbles  ;  for  she  ran  hither  and  thither  like  a  distract- 
ed person.  And  at  length  upon  the  mountain  she 
found  him  whom  she  loved  so  dearly  :  but  she  found 
him  cold  and  dead,  with  his  faithful  dogs  beside  him. 

Then  Venus  rent  her  beautiful  tresses,  and  beat  her 
breast,  and  pierced  the  air  with  her  loud  lamentations  : 
and  the  little  Cupids  that  accompany  her  broke  their 
ivory  bows  for  grief,  and  scattered  upon  the  ground  the 
arrows  of  their  golden  quivers  :  and  they  said,  "  We 
mourn  Adonis  ;  Venus  mourns  for  beautiful  Adonis  ; 
the  Loves  mourn  along  with  her.  Beautiful  Adonis 
lies  dead  upon  the  ground,  his  side  gored  with  the 
tooth  of  a  boar, — his  white  thigh  with  a  white  tooth. 
Venus  kisses  the  cold  lips  of  Adonis ;  but  Adonis 
does  not  know  that  he  is  kissed,  and  she  cannot  re- 
vive him  with  her  warm  breath." 

Then  Venus  said,  "  You  shall  not  quite  die,  my 
Adonis  !  I  will  change  you  into  a  flower."  And  she 
shed  nectar  on  the  ground,  which  mixed  with  the 
blood,  and  presently  a  crimson  flower  sprung  up  in 
the  room  of  Adonis  ;  and  also  the  river  was  tinged 
with  his  blood  and  became  red.  And  every  year,  on 
the  day  that  Adonis  died,  the  nymphs  mourned  and 
lamented  for  him,  and  ran  up  and  down  shrieking, 
and  crying  "  Beautiful  Adonis  is  dead  !  " 


54 


LETTER  OF  A  YOUNG  KING. 


MADAM, 

Amidst  the  mutual  compliments  and  kind  wishes 
which  are  universally  circulated  at  this  season,  I  hope 
mine  will  not  be  the  least  acceptable  ;  and  I  have 
thought  proper  to  give  you  this  early  assurance  of  my 
kind  intentions  towards  you,  and  the  benefits  I  have 
in  store  for  you  :  for  though  I  am  apj>omted  your  sove- 
reign ;  though  your  fates  and  fortune,  your  life  and 
death,  are  at  my  disposal ;  yet  I  am  fully  sensible  that 
I  was  created  for  my  subjects,  not  my  subjects  for  me  ; 
and  that  the  end  of  my  very  existence  is  to  diffuse 
blessings  on  my  people. 

My  predecessor  departed  this  life  last  night  pre- 
cisely at  twelve  o'clock.  He  died  of  a  universal 
decay  ;  nature  was  exhausted  in  him,  and  there  was 
not  vital  heat  sufficient  to  carry  on  the  functions  of 
life  ;  his  hair  was  fallen,  and  discovered  his  smooth, 
white,  bald  head  ;  his  voice  was  hoarse  and  broken, 
and  his  blood  froze  in  his  veins  :  in  short,  his  time 
was  come.  And  to  say  truth  he  will  not  be  much 
regretted  ;  for  of  late  he  had  been  gloomy  and  va- 
pourish, and  the  sudden  gusts  of  passion  he  had  long 
been  subject  to,  were  worked  up  into  such  storms  it 
was  impossible  to  live  under  him  with  comfort. 

With  regard  to  myself,  I  am  sensible  the  joy  ex- 
pressed at  my  accession  is  sincere,  and  that  no  young 
monarch  has  ever  been  welcomed  with  warmer 
demonstrations  of  affection.  Some  have  ardently 
longed  for  my  coming,  and  all  view  my  approach  with 
pleasure  and  cheerfulness  ;  yet  such  is  the  uncertainty 
of  popular  favour,   that  I   well   know  that  those  who 


LETTER    OF    A   YOUNG    KING.  55 

are  most  eager  and  sanguine  in  expressing  their  joy 
will  soonest  be  tired  of  my  company.  You  yourself, 
madam,  though  I  know  that  at  present  you  regard  me 
with  kindness,  as  one  from  whom  you  expect  more 
happiness  than  you  have  yet  enjoyed,  will  probably 
after  a  short  time  wish  as  much  to  part  with  me,  and 
transfer  the  same  fond  hopes  and  wishes  to  my  suc- 
cessor. But  though  your  impatience  may  make  me 
a  very  troublesome  companion,  it  will  not  in  the  least 
hasten  my  departure  ;  nor  can  all  the  powers  of  earth 
oblige  me  to  resign  a  moment  before  my  time.  In 
order,  therefore,  that  you  may  form  proper  expecta- 
tions concerning  me,  I  shall  give  you  a  little  sketch 
of  my  temper  and  manners,  and  1  will  acknowledge 
that  my  aspect  at  present  is  somewhat  stern  and  rough; 
but  there  is  a  latent  warmth  in  my  temper  which  you 
will  perceive  as  we  grow  better  acquainted,  and  1  shall 
every  day  put  on  a  milder  and  more  smiling  look  : 
indeed  I  have  so  much  fire,  that  I  may  chance  some- 
times to  make  the  house  too  hot  for  you  ;  but  in 
recompense  for  this  inequality  of  temper,  I  am  kind 
and  bountiful  as  a  giving  God  :  I  come  full-handed, 
and  my  very  business  is  to  dispense  blessings  ; — 
blessings  of  the  basket  and  the  store  ;  blessings  of  the 
field  and  of  the  vineyard  ;  blessings  for  time  and  for 
eternity.  There  is  not  an  inhabitant  of  the  globe  who 
will  not  experience  my  bounty ;  yet  such  is  the  in- 
gratitude of  mankind,  that  there  is  scarcely  one  whom 
I  shall  not  leave  in  some  degree  discontented. 

Whimsical  and  various  are  the  petitions  which  are 
daily  put  up  to  me  from  all  parts  ;  and  very  fewT  of 
the  petitioners  will  be  satisfied  ;  because  they  reject 
and  despise  the  gifts  I  offer  them  with  open  hand, 
and  set  their  minds  on  others  which  certainly  will  not 
fall  to  their  share.  Celia  has  begged  me  on  her 
knees  to    find  her  a   lover  :  I  shall  do  what  I  can  ; 


56 


LETTER    OF    A    YOUNG    KING. 


I  shall  bring  hey  the  most  magnificent  shawl  that  has 
appeared  in  Europe.  For  Dorinda,  who  has  made 
the  same  petition,  I  have  two  gifts, — wisdom  and 
grey  hairs ;  the  former  I  know  she  will  reject,  nor 
can  I  force  her  to  wear  it;  but  the  grey  hairs  1  shall 
leave  on  her  toilette  whether  she  will  or  no.  The 
curate  Sophron  expects  I  shall  bring  him  a  living  ;  I 
shall  present  him  with  twins  as  round  and  rosy  as  an 
apple.  Nor  can  I  listen  to  the  entreaty  of  Dorimant, 
whose  good  father  being  a  little  asthmatic,  he  has 
desired  me  to  push  him  into  his  grave  as  we  walk  up 
May  hill  together  :  but  I  shall  marry  him  to  a  hand- 
some lively  girl,  who  will  make  a  very  pretty  step- 
mother to  the  young  gentleman.  It  is  in  vain  for 
poor  Sylvia  to  weary  me  as  she  does  with  prayers  to 
restore  to  her  her  faithless  lover :  but  I  shall  give  her 
the  choice  of  two  to  replace  him.  Codrus  has  asked 
me  if  he  may  bespeak  a  suit  of  black  :  but  I  can  tell 
him  his  little  wife  will  outlive  me  and  him  too  :  I  have 
offered  the  old  man  a  double  portion  of  patience, 
which  he  has  thrown  away  very  pettishly, 
has  entreated  me  to  take  him  to  Scotland 
mistress  :  I  shall  do  it ;  and  he  will  hate 
name  all  his  life  after. 

The  wishes  of  some  are  very  moderate  ; 
begs  two  inches  of  height,  and  Chloe  that  I  would 
take  away  her  awkward  plumpness ;  Cams  a  new 
equipage,  and  Philida  a  new  ball-dress.  A  mother 
brought  me  her  son  the  other  day,  made  me  many 
compliments,  and  desired  me  to  teach  him  every 
thing  ;  at  the  same  time  begging  the  youth  to  throw 
away  his  marbles,  which  he  had  often  promised  to 
part  with  as  soon  as  he  saw  me  : — but  the  hoy  held 
them  fast,  and  I  shall  teach  him  nothing  but  to  play 
at  taw.  Many  ladies  have  come  to  me  with  their 
daughters  in  their  hands,  telling  me  they  hope  their 


Strephon 
with  his 
my  very 

-Fanny 


LETTER    OF    A    YOUNG    KIN(i.  57 

girls,  under  me,  will  learn  prudence  :  but  the  young 
ladies  have  as  constantly  desired  me  to  teach  pru- 
dence to  their  grandmothers,  whom  it  would  better 
become,  and  to  bring  them  new  dances  and  new 
fashions.  In  short,  I  have  scarcely  seen  any  one 
with  whom  I  am  likely  entirely  to  agree,  but  a  stout 
old  farmer  who  rents  a  small  cottage  on  the  green. 
He  was  leaning  on  his  spade  when  I  approached  him. 
As  his  neighbour  told  him  1  was  coming,  he  welcomed 
me  with  a  cheerful  countenance  ;  but  at  the  same 
time  bluntly  told  me  he  had  not  expected  me  so  soon, 
being  too  busy  to  pay  much  attention  to  my  approach. 
I  asked  him  if  I  could  do  any  thing  for  him.  He  said 
he  did  not  believe  me  better  or  worse  than  those  who 
had  preceded  me,  and  therefore  should  not  expect 
much  from  me  ;  that  he  was  happy  before  he  saw  me, 
and  should  be  very  well  contented  after  I  left  him  : 
he  was  glad  to  see  me,  however,  and  only  begged  I 
would  not  take  his  wife  from  him,  a  thin  withered  old 
woman,  who  was  eating  a  mess  of  milk  at  the  door. 
"  And  I  shall  be  glad  too,"  said  he,  "  if  you  will  fill 
my  cellar  with  potatoes."  As  he  applied  himself  to 
his  spade  while  he  said  these  words,  I  shall  certainly 
grant  his  request. 

I  shall  now  tell  you,  that  great  and  extensive  as  my 
power  is,  I  shall  possess  it  but  a  short  time.  However 
the  predictions  of  astrologers  are  now  laughed  at, 
nothing  is  more  certain  than  what  I  am  going  to  tell 
you.  A  scheme  of  my  nativity  has  been  cast  by  the 
most  eminent  astronomers,  who  have  found,  on  con- 
sulting the  stars  and  the  aspect  of  the  heavenly  bodies, 
that  Caprieornus  will  be  fatal  to  me  :  I  know  that  all 
the  physicians  in  the  world  cannot  protract  my  life 
beyond  that  fatal  period.  1  do  not  tell  you  this  to 
excite  your  sensibility, — for  I  would  have  you  meet 
me  without  fondness  and  part  with  me  without  regret ; 


58  LETTER    OF    A    YOUNG    KING. 

but  to  quicken  you  to  lay  hold  on  those  advantages 
I  am  able  to  procure  you  ;  for  it  will  be  your  own 
fault  if  you  are  not  both  wiser  and  better  for  my  corn- 
pan)  r.  I  have  likewise  another  request  to  make  to 
you, — that  you  will  write  my  epitaph  :  I  may  make 
you  happy,  but  it  depends  on  you  to  make  me  famous. 
If,  after  I  am  departed,  you  can  say  my  reign  was 
distinguished  by  good  actions  and  wise  conversations, 
and  that  I  have  left  you  happier  than  I  found  you,  I 
shall  not  have  lived  in  vain.  My  sincere  wishes  are, 
that  you  may  long  outlive  me,  but  always  remember 
me  with  pleasure.  I  am,  if  you  use  me  well, 
Your  friend  and  servant, 

The  New  Year. 


59 


VERSES 


WRITTEN   IN 


THE  LEAVES  OF   AN  IVORY  POCKET-BOOK,  PRESENTED 
TO    MASTER    T****"*. 


Accept,  my  dear,  this  toy  ;  and  let  me  say 

The  leaves  an  emblem  of  your  mind  display ;  — 

Your  youthful  mind  uneolour'd,  fair  and  white, 

Like  crystal  leaves  transparent  to  the  sight, 

Fit  each  impression  to  receive  whate'er 

The  pencil  of  instruction  traces  there. 

O  then  transcribe  into  the  shining  page 

Each  virtue  that  adorns  your  tender  age, 

And  grave  upon  the  tablet  of  your  heart 

Each  lofty  science  and  each  useful  art. 

But  with  the  likeness  mark  the  difference  well, 

Nor  think  complete  the  hasty  parallel :  — 

The  leaves  by  Folly  scrawl' d,  or  foul  with  stains, 

A  drop  of  water  clears  with  little  pains  ; 

But  from  a  blotted  mind  the  smallest  trace 

Not  seas  of  bitter  tears  can  e'er  efface  ; 

The  spreading  mark  forever  shall  remain, 

And  rolling  years  but  deepen  every  stain. 

Once  more  a  difference  let  me  still  explain  ;— 

The  vacant  leaves  forever  will  remain, 

Till  some  officious  hand  the  tablet  fill 

With  sense  or  nonsense,  prose  or  rhyme  at  will. 

Not  so  your  mind,  without  your  forming  care ; 

Nature  forbids  an  idle  vacuum  there  : 

Folly  will  plant  the  tares  without  your  toil, 

And  weeds  spring  up  in  the  neglected  soil. 

But  why  to  vou  this  moralizing  strain  ? 

Vain  is  the  precept  and  the  caution  vain, 

To  you,  whose  opening  virtues  bloom  so  fair, 

And  will  reward  the  prudent  planter's  care  ; 

As  some  young  tree,  by  generous  juices  fed, 

Above  its  fellows  lifts  its  branching  head* 


60  VERSES    IN    AN    IVORY    POCKET-BOOK. 

Whose  proud  aspiring  shoots  incessant  rise, 

And  every  day  grows  nearer  to  the  skies. 

Yet,  should  kind  heaven  your  opening  mind  adorn, 

And  bless  your  noon  of  knowledge  as  your  morn  ; 

Yet,   were  your  mind   with  every  science;  blest, 

And  every  virtue  glowing  in  your  breast, 

With  learning,  meekness,  and  with  candour,  zeal, 

Clear  to  discern,   and  generous  to  feel, 

Yet,  should  the  Graces  o'er  your  breast  diffuse 

The  softer  influence  of  the  polbh'd  muse, 

'T  is  no  original,  the  world  can  tell, 

And  all  your  praise  is  but  to  copy  well. 


61 


ON  PLANTS. 


Plants  stand  next  to  animals  in  the  scale  of  exist- 
ence :  they  are,  like  them,  organized  bodies  ;  like 
them,  increase  by  nutrition,  which  is  conveyed  through 
a  system  of  tubes  and  fine  vessels,  and  assimilated  to 
their  substance  ;  like  them,  they  propagate  their  race 
from  a  parent,  and  each  seed  produces  its  own  plant ; 
like  them,  they  grow  by  insensible  degrees  from  an 
infant  state  to  full  vigour,  and  after  a  certain  term  of 
maturity  decay  and  die.  In  short,  except  the  powers 
of  speech  and  locomotion,  they  seem  to  possess  every 
characteristic  of  sentient  life. 

A  plant  consists  of  a  root,  a  stem,  leaves,  and  a 
flower  or  blossom. 

The  root  is  bulbous,  as  the  onion  ;  long,  like  the 
parsnip  or  carrot ;  or  branched  out  into  threads,  as  the 
greater  number  are,  and  particularly  all  the  large 
ones  ; — a  bulbous  root  could  not  support  a  large  tree. 

The  stem  is  single  or  branched,  clinging  lor  sup- 
port or  upright,  clothed  with  a  skin  or  bark. 

The  flower  contains  the  principle  of  reproduction, 
as  the  root  does  of  individuality.  This  is  the  most 
precious  part  of  the  plant,  to  which  every  thing  con- 
tributes. The  root  nourishes  it,  the  stem  supports, 
the  leaves  defend  and  shelter  it :  it  comes  forth  but 
when  Nature  has  prepared  for  it  by  showers  and  sun 
and  gentle  soothing  warmth  ; — colour,  beauty,  scent 
adorn  it ;  and  when  it  is  complete,  the  end  of  the 
plant's  existence  is  answered.  It  fades  and  dies  ;  or, 
if  capable  by  its  perennial  nature  of  repeating  the 
process,  it  hides  in  its  inmost  folds  the  precious  germ 
6 


62  ON  PLANTS. 

of  new  being,  and  itself  almost  retires  from  existence 
till  a  new  year. 

A  tree  is  one  of  the  most  stately  and  beautiful  ob- 
jects in  God's  visible  creation.  It  does  not  admit  of 
an  exact  definition,  but  is  distinguished  from  the  hum- 
bler plant  by  its  size,  the  strength  of  its  stem,  which 
becomes  a  trunk,  and  the  comparative  smallness  of  the 
blossom.  In  the  fruit-trees,  indeed,  the  number  of 
blossoms  compensates  for  their  want  of  size  ;  but  in 
the  forest-trees  the  flower  is  scarcely  visible.  Pro- 
duction seems  not  to  be  so  important  a  process  where 
the  parent  tree  lives  for  centuries. 

Every  part  of  vegetables  is  useful.  Of  many  the 
roots  are  edible,  and  the  seeds  are  generally  so  ;  of 
many  the  leaves,  as  of  the  cabbage,  spinach  ;  the  buds, 
as  of  the  asparagus,  cauliflower  ;  the  bark  is  often 
employed  medicinally,  as  the  quinquina  and  cinnamon. 

The  trunk  of  a  tree  determines  the  manner  of  its 
growth,  and  gives  firmness  :  the  foliage  serves  to  form 
one  mass  of  a  number  of  trees  ;  while  the  distinct 
lines  are  partly  seen,  partly  hidden.  The  leaves  throw 
over  the  branches  a  rich  mantle,  like  flowing  tresses  ; 
they  wave  in  the  wind  with  an  undulatory  motion, 
catch  the  glow  of  the  evening  sun,  or  glitter  with  the 
rain  ;  they  shelter  innumerable  birds  and  animals,  and 
afford  variety  in  colours,  from  the  bright  green  of 
spring  to  the  varied  tints  of  autumn.  In  winter,  how- 
ever, the  form  of  each  tree  and  its  elegant  ramifica- 
tions are  discerned,  which  were  lost  under  the  flowing 
robe  of  verdure. 

Trees  are  beautiful  in  all  combinations  :  the  single 
tree  is  so  ;  the  clump,  the  grove,  rising  like  an  amphi- 
theatre ;  the  flowing  line  that  marks  the  skirts  of  wood, 
and  the  dark,  deep,  boundless  shade  of  the  forest ; 
the  green  line  of  the  hedge-row,  the  more  artificial 
avenue,  the  gotliic  arch  of  verdure,  the  tangled  thicket. 


ON  PLANTS.  63 

Young  trees  are  distinguished  by  beauty  ;  in  matu- 
rity their  characteristic  is  strength.  The  ruin  of  a 
tree  is  venerable  even  when  fallen  :  we  are  then  more 
sensible  of  its  towering  height :  we  also  observe  the 
root,  the  deep  fangs  which  held  it  against  so  many 
storms,  and  the  firmness  of  the  wood ;  a  sentiment  of 
pity  mixes  too  with  our  admiration.  The  trees  in 
groves  and  woods  shed  a  brown  religious  horror,  which 
favoured  the  religion  of  the  ancient  world.  Trees 
shelter  from  cutting  winds  and  sea  air ;  they  preserve 
moisture  :  but  if  too  many,  in  their  thick  and  heavy 
mass  lazy  vapours  stagnate ;  their  profuse  perspira- 
tion is  unwholesome  ;  they  shut  out  the  golden  sun 
and  ventilating  breeze. 

It  should  seem  as  if  the  number  of  trees  must  have 
been  diminishing  for  ages,  for  in  no  cultivated  country 
does  the  growth  of  trees  equal  the  waste  of  them.  A 
few  gentlemen  raise  plantations,  but  many  more  cut 
down  ;  and  the  farmer  thinks  not  of  so  lofty  a  thing 
as  the  growth  of  ages.  Trees  are  too  lofty  to  want 
the  hand  of  man.  The  florist  may  mingle  his  tulips 
and  spread  the  paper  ruff  on  his  carnations ;  he  may 
trim  his  mount  of  roses  and  his  laurel  hedge  :  but  the 
lofty  growth  of  trees  soars  far  above  him.  If  he 
presumes  to  fashion  them  with  his  shears,  and  trim 
them  into  fanciful  or  mathematical  shapes,  offended 
taste  will  mock  all  his  improvements.  Even  in  plant- 
ing he  can  do  little.  He  may  succeed  in  fancying  a 
clump  or  laying  out  an  avenue,  and  may  perhaps 
gently  incline  the  boughs  to  form  the  arch  j  but  a 
forest  was  never  planted. 


G4 


ON  A  PORTRAIT 

OF 

A  LADY  AND  TWO  CHILDREN. 


As,  nursed  by  warmer  suns  and  milder  showers. 
In  fair  Italia's  vales  the  orange  blows  ; 
Heavy  at  once  with  fruit  and  gay  with  flowers, 
The  richness  of  the  year  she  all  together  shows ; 

Thus,  ere  the  blossom  of  her  life  is  o'er, 
Two  smiling  infants  grace  Maria's  side  ; 
More  lovely  fruit  than  all  Pomona's  store, 
Her  ruddy  orchards,  or  her  golden  pride. 

Less  fair,  twin  apples  blushing  on  a  bough, 

On  whose  smooth  cheek  the  ripening  summer  glows, 

Or  those  which  broke  fleet  Atalanta's  vow, 

Or  that,  from  whence  celestial  strife  arose. 

Long  may  the  stock,  and  long  the  fruit  remain, 
May  their  young  fondness  with  their  years  increase, 
Nor  ever  words  unkind,  or  bitter  pain, 
Wound  the  sweet  bosom  of  domestic  peace. 

And  when,  late  time,  the  mother's  bloom  must  fade, 
And  when  the  sire  shall  be  by  fate  removed  ; 
May  these  their  name,  their  form,  their  virtues  spread, 
Like  them  be  happy,  and  like  them  be  loved. 


0^ 


EARTH. 


All  the  different  substances  which  we  behold  have 
by  the  earliest  philosophers  been  resolved  into  four 
elements, — Earth,  Water,  Air,  and  Fire.  These, 
combined  with  endless  diversity,  in  their  various 
dance,  under  the  direction  of  the  great  First  Mover, 
form  this  scene  of  things, — so  complex,  so  beautiful, 
so  infinitely  varied  ! 

Earth  is  the  element  which  on  many  accounts 
claims  our  chief  notice.  It  forms  the  bulk  of  that 
vast  body  of  matter  which  composes  our  globe  ;  and, 
like  the  bones  to  the  human  body,  it  gives  firmness, 
shape,  and  solidity  to  the  various  productions  of 
Nature.  It  is  ponderous,  dull,  unanimated,  ever  seek- 
ing the  lowest  place  ;  and,  except  moved  by  some 
external  impulse,  prone  to  rest  in  one  sluggish  mass. 
Yet  when  fermented  into  life  by  the  quickening  power 
of  vegetation, — in  how  many  forms  of  grace  and 
beauty  does  it  rise  to  the  admiring  eye  !  How  gay, 
how  vivid  with  colours  !  how  fragrant  with  smells  ! 
how  rich  with  tastes, — luscious,  poignant,  sapid,  mild, 
pungent,  or  saccharine  !  Into  what  delicate  textures 
is  it  spread  out  in  the  thin  leaf  of  the  rose,  or  the  light 
film  of  the  floating  gossamer  !  How  curious  in  the 
elegant  ramifications  of  trees  and  shrubs,  or  the  light 
dust  which  the  microscope  discovers  to  contain  the 
seed  of  future  plants  ! 

Nor  has  earth  less  of  magnificence,  in  the  various 
appearances  with  which  upon  a  larger  scale  its  broad 
surface  is  diversified  ; — whether  we  behold  it  stretch- 
ed out  into  immense  plains  and  vast  savannahs,  whose 
6* 


66  EARTH. 

level  green  is  only  bounded  by  the  horizon  ;  or  mould- 
ed into  those  gentle  risings  and  easy  declivities  whose 
soft  and  undulating  lines  court  the  pencil  of  the  land- 
scape-painter; or  whether,  swelled  into  bulk  enormous, 
it  astonishes  the  eye  with  vast  masses  of  solid  rock 
and  long-continued  bulwarks  of  stone.  Such  are  the 
Pyrenees,  the  Alps,  the  Andes,  which  stand  the  ever- 
lasting boundaries  of  nations ;  and,  while  kingdoms 
rise  and  fall,  and  the  lesser  works  of  nature  change 
their  appearance  all  around  them,  immovable  on  their 
broad  basis,  strike  the  mind  with  an  idea  of  stability 
little  short  of  eternal  duration. 

If  from  the  mountains  which  possess  the  middle  of 
Earth  we  bend  our  course  to  the  green  verge  of  her 
dominions,  the  utmost  limits  of  her  shores,  where 
land  and  water,  like  two  neighbouring  potentates, 
wage  eternal  war, — with  what  steady  majesty  does 
<he  repel  the  encroachments  of  the  ever-restless  ocean, 
and  dash  the  turbulence  of  waves  from  her  strong- 
ribbed  sides  ! 

Nor  do  thy  praises  end  here  : — With  a  kind  of 
filial  veneration  I  hail  thee,  O  universal  mother  of  all 
the  elements, — to  man  the  most  mild,  the  most  bene- 
ficent, the  most  congenial !  Man  himself  is  formed 
from  thee  :  on  thy  maternal  breast  he  reposes  when 
weary  ;  thy  teeming  lap  supplies  him  with  never- 
failing  plenty  :  and  when  for  a  few  years  he  has  moved 
about  upon  thy  surface,  he  is  gathered  again  to  thy 
peaceful  bosom,  at  once  his  nurse,  his  cradle,  and  his 
grave. 

Who  can  reckon  up  the  benefits  supplied  to  us  by 
this  parent  Earth, — ever  serviceable,  ever  indulgent ! 
with  how  many  productions  does  she  reward  the  la- 
bour of  the  cultivator !  how  many  more  does  she  pour 
out  spontaneously !  How  faithfully  does  she  keep, 
with   what  large  interest  does  she  restore,  the  seed 


EARTH.  67 

committed  to  her  by  the  husbandman  !  What  an 
abundance  does  she  yield,  of  food  for  the  poor,  of 
delicacies  for  the  rich  !  Her  wealth  is  inexhaustible  ; 
and  all  that  is  called  riches  among  men  consists  in 
possessing  a  small  portion  of  her  surface. 

How  patiently  does  she  support  the  various  burdens 
laid  upon  her  !  We  tear  her  with  ploughs  and  har- 
rows, we  crush  her  with  castles  and  palaces  ;  nay  we 
penetrate  her  very  bowels,  and  bring  to  light  the  vein- 
ed marble,  the  pointed  crystal,  the  ponderous  ores  and 
sparkling  gems,  deep  hid  in  darkness,  the  more  to 
excite  the  industry  of  man.  Yet,  torn  and  harassed 
as  she  might  seem  to  be,  our  mother  Earth  is  still  fresh 
and  young,  as  if  she  but  now  came  out  of  the  hands 
of  her  Creator.  Her  harvests  are  as  abundant,  her 
horn  of  plenty  as  overflowing,  her  robe  as  green,  her 
unshorn  tresses  (the  waving  foliage  of  brown  forests) 
as  luxuriant ;  and  all  her  charms  as  blooming  and  full 
of  vigour.  Such  she  remains,  and  such  we  trust  she 
will  remain,  till  in  some  fated  hour  the  more  devour- 
ing element  of  fire,  having  broke  the  bonds  of  har- 
monious union,  shall  seize  upon  its  destined  prey,  and 
all  nature  sink  beneath  the  mighty  ruin. 


G8 


ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY. 


LETTER  I. 

MY    DEAR    LYDTA, 

I  was  told  the  other  day  that  you  have  not  forgotten 
a  promise  of  mine  to  correspond  with  you  upon  some 
subject  which  might  be  worth  discussing,  and  relative 
to  your  pursuits.  I  have  often  recollected  it  also  ;  and 
as  promises  ought  not  only  to  be  recollected  but  ful- 
filled, 1  will  without  further  preface  throw  together 
some  thoughts  on  History, — a  study  that  I  know  you 
value  as  it  deserves  ;  and  I  trust  it  will  not  be  dis- 
agreeable to  you,  if  you  should  find  some  observa- 
tions which  your  own  mind  may  have  suggested,  or 
which  you  may  recollect  to  have  heard  from  me  in 
some  of  those  hours  which  we  spent  together  with 
mutual  pleasure. 

Much  has  been  said  of  the  uses  of  history.  They 
are  no  doubt  many,  yet  do  not  apply  equally  to  all  : 
but  it  is  quite  sufficient  to  make  it  a  study  worth  our 
pains  and  time,  that  it  satisfies  the  desire  which  natu- 
rally arises  in  every  intelligent  mind  to  know  the  trans- 
actions of  the  country,  of  the  globe  in  which  he  lives. 
Facts,  as  facts,  interest  our  curiosity  and  engage  our 
attention. 

Suppose  a  person  placed  in  a  part  of  the  country 
where  he  was  a  total  stranger  ;  he  would  naturally  ask, 
who  are  the  chief  people  of  the  place,  what  family 
they  are  of,  whether  any  of  their  ancestors  have  been 
famous,  and  for  what.  If  he  see  a  ruined  abbey,  he 
will  inquire  what  the  building  was  used  for  ;  and  if  he 


ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY.  69 

be  told  it  is  a  place  where  people  got  up  at  midnight 
to  sing  psalms,  and  scourged  themselves  in  the  day, — 
he  will  ask  how  there  came  to  be  such  people,  or 
why  there  are  none  now.  If  he  observes  a  dilapidat- 
ed castle  which  appears  to  have  been  battered  by 
violence,  he  will  ask  in  what  quarrel  it  suffered,  and 
why  they  built  formerly  structures  so  different  from 
any  we  see  now.  If  any  part  of  the  inhabitants  should 
speak  a  different  language  from  the  rest,  or  have  some 
singular  customs  among  them,  he  would  suppose  they 
came  originally  from  some  remote  part  of  the  country, 
and  would  inform  himself,  if  he  could,  of  the  cause 
of  their  peculiarities. 

If  he  were  of  a  curious  temper,  he  would  not  rest 
till  he  had  informed  himself  whom  every  estate  in  the 
parish  belonged  to,  what  hands  they  had  gone  through ; 
how  one  man  got  this  field  by  marrying  an  heiress, 
and  the  other  lost  that  meadow  by  a  ruinous  law  suit. 
As  a  man  of  spirit  he  would  feel  delighted  on  hearing 
the  relation  of  the  opposition  made  by  an  honest  yeo- 
man to  an  overbearing  rich  man  on  the  subject  of  an 
accustomed  pathway  or  right  of  common.  If  he 
should  find  the  town  or  village  divided  into  parties, 
he  would  take  some  pains  to  trace  the  original  cause 
of  their  dissention,  and  to  find  out,  if  possible,  who 
had  the  right  on  his  side.  Circumstances  would  often 
occur  to  excite  his  attention.  If  he  saw  a  bridge,  he 
would  ask  when  and  by  whom  it  was  built.  If  in 
digging  in  his  garden  he  should  find  utensils  of  a  singu- 
lar form  and  construction,  or  a  pot  of  money  with  a 
stamp  and  legend  quite  different  from  the  common 
coin,  he  would  be  led  to  inquire  when  they  were  in 
use,  and  to  whom  they  had  belonged.  His  curiosity 
would  extend  itself  by  degrees.  If  a  brook  ran 
throw  the  meadows,  he  would  be  pleased  to  trace  it 
till  it  swelled  into  a  river,  and  the  river  till  it  lost  itself 


70  ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY. 

in  the  sea.  He  would  be  asking  whose  seat  he  saw 
upon  the  edge  of  a  distant  forest,  and  what  sort  of 
country  lay  behind  the  range  of  hills  that  bounded  his 
utmost  view.  If  any  strangers  came  to  visit  or  reside 
in  the  place  where  he  lived,  he  would  be  questioning 
them  about  the  country  they  came  from,  their  con- 
nexions and  alliances,  and  the  remarkable  transactions 
that  had  taken  place  within  their  memory  or  that  of 
their  parents.  The  answers  to  these  questions  would 
insensibly  grow  up  into  History,  which,  as  you  see, 
does  not  originate  in  abstruse  speculations,  but  grows 
naturally  out  of  our  situation  and  relative  connexions. 
It  gratifies  a  curiosity  which  all  feel  in  some  degree, 
but  which  spreads  and  enlarges  itself  with  the  cultiva- 
tion of  our  powers,  till  at  length  it  embraces  the  whole 
globe  which  we  inhabit.  To  know  is  as  natural  to 
the  mind  as  to  see  is  to  the  eye,  and  knowledge  is 
itself  an  ultimate  end.  But  though  this  may  be 
esteemed  an  ultimate  and  sufficient  end,  the  study  of 
history  is  important  to  various  purposes.  Few  pur- 
suits tend  more  to  enlarge  the  mind.  It  gives  us,  and 
it  only  can  give  us,  an  extended  knowledge  of  human 
nature  ; — not  human  nature  as  it  exists  in  one  age  or 
climate  or  particular  spot  of  earth,  but  human  nature 
under  all  the  various  circumstances  by  which  it  can 
be  affected.  It  shows  us  what  is  radical  and  what  is 
adventitious ;  it  shows  us  that  man  is  still  man  in  Tur- 
key and  in  Lapland,  as  a  vassal  in  Russia  or  a  mem- 
ber of  a  wandering  tribe  in  India,  in  ancient  Athens  or 
modern  Rome  ;  yet  that  his  character  is  susceptible  of 
violent  changes,  and  becomes  moulded  into  infinite 
diversities  by  the  influence  of  government,  climate, 
civilization,  wealth,  and  poverty.  By  showing  us 
how  man  has  acted,  it  shows  us  to  a  certain  degree 
how  he  will  ever  act  in  given  circumstances ;  and 
general  rules  and  maxims  are  drawn  from  it  for  the 
service  of  the  lawgiver  and  the  statesman. 


ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY.  71 

Here  I  must  observe  however,  with  regard  to  events, 
that  a  knowledge  of  history  does  not  seem  to  give  us 
any  great  advantage  in  foreseeing  and  preparing  for 
them.  The  deepest  politician,  with  all  his  knowledge 
of  the  revolutions  of  past  ages,  could  probably  no 
more  have  predicted  the  course  and  termination  of  the 
late  French  revolution,  than  a  common  man.  The  state 
of  our  own  national  debt  has  baffled  calculation,  the 
course  of  ages  has  presented  nothing  like  it.  Who 
could  have  pronounced  that  the  struggle  of  the  Ameri- 
cans would  be  successful — that  of  the  Poles  unsuc- 
cessful ?  Human  characters  indeed  act  always  alike  : 
but  events  depend  upon  circumstances  as  well  as 
characters ;  and  circumstances  are  infinitely  various 
and  changed  by  the  slightest  causes.  A  battle  won 
or  lost  may  decide  the  fate  of  an  empire  :  but  a  bat- 
tle may  be  won  or  lost  by  a  shower  of  snow  being 
blown  to  the  east  or  the  west ;  by  a  horse  (the  gene- 
ral's) losing  his  shoe  ;  by  a  bullet  or  an  arrow  taking 
a  direction  a  tenth  part  of  an  inch  one  way  or  the 
other. — The  whole  course  of  the  French  affairs  might 
have  been  changed  if  the  king  had  not  stopped  to 
breakfast,  or  if  the  post-master  of  Varennes  had  not 
happened  to  know  him.  These  are  particulars  which 
no  man  can  foresee  ;  and  therefore  no  man  can  with 
precision  foresee  events. 

The  rising  up  of  certain  characters  at  particular 
periods  ranks  among  those  unforeseen  circumstances 
that  powerfully  influence  events.  Often  does  a  single 
man,  as  Epaminondas,  illustrate  his  country,  and  leave 
a  long  track  of  light  after  him  to  future  ages.  And 
who  can  tell  how  much  even  America  owed  to  the 
accident  of  being  served  by  such  a  man  as  Washing- 
ton ?  There  are  always  many  probable  events.  All 
that  history  enables  the  politician  to  do,  is  to  predict 
that  one  or  other  of  them  will  take  place.     If  so  and 


72  ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY. 

so,  it  will  be  this  ;  if  so  and  so,  it  will  be  that :  but 
which,  we  cannot  tell.  There  are  always  combina- 
tions of  circumstances  which  have  never  met  before 
from  the  creation  of  the  world,  and  which  mock  all 
power  of  calculation*  But  let  the  circumstances  be 
known  and  the  characters  upon  the  stage,  and  history 
will  tell  him  what  to  expect  from  them.  It  will  tell 
him  with  certainty,  for  instance,  that  a  treaty  extorted 
by  force  from  distress,  will  be  broken  when  oppor- 
tunity offers  :  that  if  the  church  and  the  monarch  are 
united  they  will  oppress,  if  at  variance  they  will  divide 
the  people ;  that  a  powerful  nation  will  make  its  ad- 
vantage of  the  divisions  of  a  weaker  which  applies 
for  its  assistance. 

It  is  another  advantage  of  history,  that  it  stores  the 
mind  with  facts  that  apply  to  most  subjects  which 
occur  in  conversation  among  enlightened  people. 
Whether  morals,  commerce,  languages,  polite  litera- 
ture be  the  object  of  discussion,  it  is  history  that  must 
supply  her  large  storehouse  of  proofs  and  illustrations. 
A  man  or  a  woman  may  decline  without  blame  many 
subjects  of  literature,  but  to  be  ignorant  of  history  is 
not  permitted  to  any  of  a  cultivated  mind.  It  may  be 
reckoned  among  its  advantages,  that  this  study  natural- 
ly increases  the  love  of  every  man  to  his  country. 
We  can  only  love  what  we  know  ;  it  is  by  becoming 
acquainted  with  the  long  line  of  patriots,  heroes,  and 
distinguished  men,  that  we  learn  to  love  the  country 
which  has  produced  them. 

But  I  must  conclude  this  letter,  already  perhaps  too 
Ions,  though  I  have  not  got  to  the  end  of  my  subject : 
it  will  give  me  soon  another  opportunity  of  subscribing 
myself 

Your  ever  affectionate  friend. 


Ox\  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY.  73 

LETTER  II. 

I  left  off,  my  dear  Lydia,  with  mentioning,  among 
the  advantages  of  an  acquaintance  with  history,  that  it 
fosters  the  sentiments  of  patriotism. 

What  is  a  man's  country  ?  To  the  unlettered 
peasant  who  has  never  left  his  native  village,  that  vil- 
lage is  his  country,  and  consequently  all  of  it  he  can 
love.  The  man  who  mixes  in  the  world,  and  has  a 
large  acquaintance  with  the  characters  existing  along 
with  himself  upon  the  stage  of  it,  has  a  wider  range. 
His  idea  of  a  country  extends  to  its  civil  polity,  its 
military  triumphs,  the  eloquence  of  its  courts,  and  the 
splendour  of  its  capital.  All  the  great  and  good  char- 
acters he  is  acquainted  with  swell  his  idea  of  its  im- 
portance, and  endear  to  him  the  society  of  which  he 
is  a  member.  But  how  wonderfully  does  this  idea 
expand,  and  how  majestic  a  form  does  it  put  on,  when 
History  conducts  our  retrospective  view  through  past 
ages !  How  much  more  has  the  man  to  love,  how 
much  to  interest  him  in  his  country,  in  whom  her 
image  is  identified  with  the  virtues  of  an  Alfred,  with 
the  exploits  of  the  Henries  and  Edwards,  with  the 
fame  and  fortunes  of  the  Sidneys  and  Hampdens,  the 
Lockes  and  Miltons,  who  have  illustrated  her  annals ! 
Like  a  man  of  noble  birth  who  walks  up  and  down  in 
a  long  gallery  of  portraits,  and  is  able  to  say,  "  This 
my  progenitor  was  admiral  in  such  a  fight ;  that  my 
great-uncle  was  general  in  such  an  engagement ;  he 
on  the  right  hand  held  the  seals  in  such  a  reign  ;  that 
lady  in  so  singular  a  costume  was  a  celebrated  beauty 
two  hundred  years  ago  ;  this  little  man  in  the  black 
cap  and  peaked  beard  wTas  one  of  the  luminaries  of 
his  age,  and  suffered  for  his  religion  ;" — he  learns  to 
value  himself  upon  his  ancestry,  and  to  feel  interested 
for  the  honour  and  prosperity  of  the  whole  line  of  de- 
7 


74  ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY. 

scene! ants.  Could  a  Swiss,  think  you,  be  so  good  a 
patriot  who  had  never  heard  of  the  name  of  William 
Tell  ?  or  the  Hollander,  who  should  be  unacquainted 
with  the  glorious  struggles  which  freed  his  nation  from 
the  tyranny  of  the  Duke  of  Alva  ? 

The  Englishman  conversant  in  history  has  been 
long  acquainted  with  his  country.  He  knew  her  in 
the  infancy  of  her  greatness  ;  has  seen  her,  perhaps, 
in  the  wattled  huts  and  slender  canoes  in  which  Caesar 
discovered  her  :  he  has  watched  her  rising  fortunes, 
has  trembled  at  her  dangers,  rejoiced  at  her  deliver- 
ances, and  shared  with  honest  pride  triumphs  that 
were  celebrated  ages  before  he  was  born.  He  has 
traced  her  gradual  improvement  through  many  a  dark 
and  turbulent  period,  many  a  storm  of  civil  warfare, 
to  the  fair  reign  of  her  liberty  and  law,  to  the  fulness 
of  her  prosperity  and  the  amplitude  of  her  fame. 

Or  should  our  patriot  have  his  lot  cast  in  some  age 
and  country  which  has  declined  from  this  high  station 
of  pre-eminence ;  should  he  observe  the  gathering 
glooms  of  superstition  and  ignorance  ready  to  close 
again  over  the  bright  horizon  ;  should  Liberty  lie 
prostrate  at  the  feet  of  a  despot,  and  the  golden  stream 
of  commerce,  diverted  into  other  channels,  leave 
nothing  but  beggary  and  wretchedness  around  him  ; — 
even  then,  in  these  ebbing  fortunes  of  his  country, 
History,  like  a  faithful  meter,  would  tell  him  how  high 
the  tide  had  once  risen ;  he  would  not  tread  uncon- 
sciously the  ground  where  the  Muses  and  the  Arts 
bad  once  resided,  like  the  goat  that  stupidly  browses 
upon  the  fane  of  Minerva.  Even  the  name  of  his 
country  will  be  dear  and  venerable  to  him.  He  will 
muse  over  her  fallen  greatness,  sit  down  under  the 
shade  of  her  never-dying  laurels,  build  his  little  cot- 
tage amidst  the  ruins  of  her  towers  and  temples,  and 
contemplate  with  tenderness  and  respect  the  decaying 
age  of  his  once  illustrious  parent. 


ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY.  75 

But  if  an  acquaintance  with  history  thus  increases  a 
rational  love  of  our  country,  it  also  tends  to  check 
those  low,  illiberal,  vulgar  prejudices  which  adhere  to 
the  uninformed  of  every  nation.  Travelling  will  also 
cure  them  :  but  to  travel  is  not  within  the  power  of 
every  one.  There  is  no  use,  but  a  great  deal  of  harm 
in  fostering  a  contempt  for  other  nations ;  in  an  arro- 
gant assumption  of  superiority,  and  the  clownish  sneer 
of  ignorance  at  every  thing  in  laws,  government,  or 
maimers  which  is  not  fashioned  after  our  partial  ideas 
and  familiar  usages.  A  well-informed  person  will 
not  be  apt  to  exclaim  at  every  event  out  of  the  com- 
mon way,  that  nothing  like  it  has  ever  happened  since 
the  creation  of  the  world,  that  such  atrocities  are  to- 
tally unheard-of  in  any  age  or  nation  ; — sentiments  we 
have  all  of  us  so  often  heard  of  late  on  the  subject  of 
the  French  revolution  :  when  in  fact  we  can  scarcely 
open  a  page  of  their  history  without  being  struck  with 
similar  and  equal  enormities.  Indeed  party  spirit  is 
very  much  cooled  and  checked  by  an  acquaintance 
with  the  events  of  past  times. 

When  we  see  the  mixed  and  imperfect  virtue  of 
the  most  distinguished  characters ;  the  variety  of  mo- 
tives, some  pure  and  some  impure,  which  influence 
political  conduct ;  the  partial  success  of  the  wisest 
schemes,  and  the  frequent  failure  of  the  fairest  hopes : 
— we  shall  find  it  more  difficult  to  choose  a  side,  and 
to  keep  up  an  interest  towards  it  in  our  minds,  than 
to  restrain  our  feelings  and  language  within  the  bounds 
of  good  sense  and  moderation.  This,  by  the  way, 
makes  it  particularly  proper  that  ladies  who  interest 
themselves  in  the  events  of  public  life  should  have 
their  minds  cultivated  by  an  acquaintance  with  histo- 
ry, without  which,  they  are  apt  to  let  the  whole  warmth 
of  their  natures  flow  out,  upon  party  matters,  in  an 
ardour  more  honest  than  wise,  more  zealous  than 
candid. 


76  ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY. 

With  regard  to  the  moral  uses  of  history,  what  has 
just  been  mentioned  may  stand  for  one.  It  serves 
also  by  exercise  to  strengthen  the  moral  feelings. 
The  traits  of  generosity,  heroism,  disinterestedness, 
magnanimity,  are  scattered  over  it  like  sparkling  gems, 
and  arrest  the  attention  of  the  most  common  reader. 
It  is  wonderfully  interesting  to  follow  the  revolutions 
of  a  great  state,  particularly  when  they  lead  to  the 
successful  termination  of  some  glorious  contest.  Is  it 
true  ? — a  child  asks,  when  you  tell  him  a  wonderful 
story  that  strikes  his  imagination.  The  writer  of  fic- 
tion has  the  unlimited  command  of  events  and  of 
characters  ;  yet  that  single  circumstance  of  truth,  that 
the  events  related  really  came  to  pass,  that  the  heroes 
brought  upon  the  stage  really  existed, — counterbal- 
ances, with  respect  to  interest,  all  the  privileges  of 
the  former,  and  in  a  mind  a  little  accustomed  to  exer- 
tion will  throw  the  advantage  on  the  side  of  the  histo- 
rian. 

The  more  History  approaches  to  Biography  the 
more  interest  it  excites.  Where  the  materials  are 
meagre  and  scanty,  the  antiquarian  and  chronologer 
may  dwell  upon  the  page ;  but  it  will  seldom  excite 
the  glow  of  admiration  or  draw  the  delicious  tear  of 
sensibility.  I  must  acknowledge,  however,  in  order 
to  be  candid,  that  the  emotions  excited  by  the  actions 
of  our  species  are  not  always  of  so  pleasing  or  so 
edifying  a  nature.  The  miseries  and  the  vices  of  man 
form  a  large  part  of  the  picture  of  human  society  : 
the  pure  mind  is  disgusted  by  depravity,  the  existence 
of  which  it  could  not  have  imagined  to  itself;  and  the 
feeling  heart  is  cruelly  lacerated  by  the  sad  repetition 
of  wrongs  and  oppression,  chains  and  slaughter,  sack 
and  massacre,  which  assail  it  in  every  page  : — till  the 
mind  has  gained  some  strength,  so  frightful  a  picture 
should  hardly  be  presented  to  it.     Chosen  periods 


ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY.  77 

history  may  be  selected  for  youth,  as  the  society  of 
chosen  characters  precedes  in  well-regulated  educa- 
tion a  more  indiscriminate  acquaintance  with  the 
world.  In  favour  of  a  more  extended  view,  I  can 
only  say  that  truth  is  truth, — man  must  be  shown  as 
the  being  he  really  is,  or  no  real  knowledge  is  gained. 
If  a  young  person  were  to  read  only  the  Beauties  of 
History,  or,  according  to  Madame  Genlis's  scheme, 
stories  and  characters  in  which  all  that  was  vicious 
should  be  left  out,  he  might  as  well,  for  any  real  ac- 
quaintance with  life  he  would  gain,  have  been  reading 
all  the  while  Sir  Charles  Grandison  or  the  Princess  of 
Cleves. 

One  consoling  idea  will  present  itself  with  no  small 
degree  of  probability  on  comparing  the  annals  of  past 
and  present  times, — that  of  a  tendency  to  ameliora- 
tion ;  at  least  it  is  evidently  found  in  those  countries 
with  which  we  are  most  connected.  But  the  only 
balm  that  can  be  poured  with  full  effect  into  the  feel- 
ing mind  which  bleeds  for  the  folly  and  wickedness  of 
man,  is  the  belief  that  all  events  are  directed  and  con- 
trolled by  supreme  wisdom  and  goodness.  Without 
this  persuasion,  the  world  becomes  a  desert,  and  its 
devastators  the  wolves  and  tigers  that  prowl  over  it. 

It  is  needless  to  insist  on  the  uses  of  history  to  those 
whose  situation  in  life  gives  them  room  to  expect 
that  their  actions  may  one  day  become  the  objects  of 
it.  Besides  the  immediate  necessity  to  them  of  the 
knowledge  it  supplies,  it  affords  the  strongest  motives 
for  their  conduct  of  hope  and  fear.  The  solemn 
award,  the  incorruptible  tribunal,  and  the  severe,  soul- 
searching  inquisition  of  Posterity  is  calculated  to  strike 
an  awe  into  their  souls.  They  cannot  take  refuge 
in  oblivion :  it  is  not  permitted  them  to  die  : — they 
may  be  the  objects  of  gratitude  or  detestation  as  long 
as  the  world  stands.  They  mav  flatter  themselves 
7* 


tb  ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY. 

that  they  have  silenced  the  voice  of  truth  ;  they  im\y 
forbid  newspapers  and  pamphlets  and  conversation  ; — 
an  unseen  hand  is  all  the  while  tracing  out  their  his- 
tory, and  often  their  minutest  actions,  in  indelible 
characters ;  and  it  will  soon  be  held  up  for  the  judg- 
ment of  the  world  at  large. 

Lastly,  this  permanency  of  human  characters  tends 
to  cherish  in  the  mind  the  hope  and  belief  of  an  ex- 
istence after  death.  If  we  had  no  notices  from  the 
page  of  history  of  those  races  of  men  that  have  lived 
before  us,  they  would  seem  to  be  completely  swept 
away  ;  and  we  should  no  more  think  of  inquiring  what 
human  beings  filled  our  place  upon  the  earth  a  thou- 
sand harvests  ago,  than  we  should  think  about  the 
generations  of  cattle  which  at  that  time  grazed  the 
marshes  of  the  Tiber,  or  the  venerable  ancestors  of 
the  goats  that  are  browsing  upon  Mount  Hymettus ; — 
no  vestige  would  remain  of  one  any  more  than  of  the 
other,  and  we  might  more  pardonably  fall  into  the 
opinion  that  they  both  had  shared  a  similar  fate.  But 
when  we  see  illustrious  characters  continuing  to  live  on 
in  the  eye  of  posterity,  their  memories  still  fresh, 
and  their  noble  actions  shining  with  all  the  vivid  col- 
ouring of  truth  and  reality,  ages  after  the  very  dust  of 
their  tombs  is  scattered,  high  conceptions  kindle  within 
us ;  and  feeling  one  immortality  we  are  led  to  hope 
for  another.  We  find  it  hard  to  persuade  ourselves 
that  the  man  who,  like  Antoninus  or  Socrates,  fills  the 
world  with  the  sweet  perfume  of  his  virtue,  the  mar- 
tyr or  the  patriot  to  whom  posterity  is  doing  the  justice 
which  was  denied  him  by  his  contemporaries,  should 
all  the  while  himself  be  blotted  out  ol*  existence  ;  that 
he  should  be  benefiting  mankind  and  doing  good  so 
long  after  he  is  capable  of  receiving  any  ;  that  we 
should  be  so  well  acquainted  with  him,  and  that  he 
should  never  know  any  thing  of  us.     That  one  who  is 


ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY.  79 

an  active  agent  in  the  world,  instructing,  informing  it, 
inspiring  friendship,  making  disciples,  should  be  no- 
thing— this  does  not  seem  probable ;  the  records  of 
time  suggest  to  us  eternity. — Farewell. 


LETTER  III. 


MY    DEAR    LYDIA, 

We  have  considered  the  uses  of  History ;  I  would 
now  direct  your  attention  to  those  collateral  branches 
of  science  which  are  necessary  for  the  profitable  un- 
derstanding of  it.  It  is  impossible  to  understand  one 
thing  well  without  understanding  to  a  certain  degree 
many  other  things ;  there  is  a  mutual  dependence  be- 
tween all  parts  of  knowledge.  This  is  the  reason  that 
a  child  never  fully  comprehends  what  he  is  taught : 
he  receives  an  idea,  but  not  the  full  idea,  perhaps  not 
the  principal  of  what  you  want  to  teach  him.  But  as 
his  mind  opens,  this  idea  enlarges  and  receives  ac- 
cessory ideas,  till  slowly  and  by  degrees  he  is  master 
of  the  whole.  This  is  particularly  the  case  in  History. 
You  may  recollect  probably  that  the  mere  adventure 
was  all  you  entered  into,  in  those  portions  of  it  which 
were  presented  to  you  at  a  very  early  age.  You 
could  understand  nothing  of  the  springs  of  action, 
nothing  of  the  connexion  of  events  with  the  intrigues 
of  cabinets,  with  religion,  with  commerce  ;  nothing 
of  the  state  of  the  world  at  different  periods  of  society 
and  improvement :  and  as  little  could  you  grasp  the 
measured  distances  of  time  and  space  which  are  set 
between  them.  This  you  could  not  do,  not  because 
the  history  was  not  related  with  clearness,  but  because 
you  were  destitute  of  other  knowledge. 


30  ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY. 

Tiie  first  studies  which  present  themselves  as  ac- 
cessories in  this  light  are  Geography  and  Chronology, 
which  have  been  called  the  two  eyes  of  History. 
When  was  it  done  ?  Where  was  it  done  ?  are  the  two 
first  questions  you  would  ask  concerning  any  fact  that 
was  related  to  you.  Without  these  two  particulars 
there  can  be  no  precision  or  clearness. 

Geography  is  best  learned  along  with  history ;  for 
if  the  first  explains  history,  the  latter  gives  interest  to 
geography,  which  without  it  is  but  a  dry  list  of  names. 
For  this  reason,  if  a  young  person  begin  with  ancient 
history,  I  should  think  it  advisable,  after  a  slight  gene- 
ral acquaintance  with  the  globe,  to  confine  his  geo- 
graphy to  the  period  and  country  of  which  he  is 
reading  ;  and  it  would  be  a  desirable  thing  to  have 
maps  adapted  to  each  remarkable  period  in  the  great 
empires  of  the  world.  These  should  not  contain  any 
towns  or  be  divided  into  any  provinces  which  were 
not  known  at  that  period.  A  map  of  Egypt  for  in- 
stance, calculated  for  its  ancient  monarchy,  should 
have  Memphis  marked  in  it,  but  not  Alexandria,  be- 
cause the  two  capitals  did  not  exist  together.  A  map 
of  Judea  for  the  time  of  Solomon,  or  any  period  of 
its  monarclry,  should  not  exhibit  the  name  of  Samaria, 
nor  the  villages  of  Bethany  and  Nazareth  :  but  each 
country  should  have  the  towns  and  divisions,  as  far 
as  they  are  known,  calculated  for  the  period  the  map 
was  meant  to  illustrate.  Thus  geography,  civil  geo- 
graphy, would  be  seen  to  grow  out  of  history  ;  and 
the  mere  view  of  the  map  would  suggest  the  political 
state  of  the  world  at  any  period. 

It  would  be  a  pleasing  speculation  to  see  how  the 
arbitrary  divisions  of  kingdoms  and  provinces  vary 
and  become  obsolete,  and  large  towns  flourish  and 
fall  again  into  ruins  :  while  the  great  natural  features, 
the  mountains,  rivers,  and  seas  remain  unchanged,  by 


ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY.  81 

whatever  names  we  please  to  call  them,  whatever  em- 
pire encloses  them  within  its  temporary  boundaries. 
We  have,  it  is  true,  ancient  and  modern  maps  ;  but 
the  one  set  includes  every  period  from  the  Flood  to 
the  provinciating  the  Roman  empire  under  Trajan, 
and  the  other  takes  in  all  the  rest.  About  half  a 
dozen  sets  for  the  ancient  states  and  empires,  and  as 
many  for  the  modern,  would  be  sufficient  to  exhibit 
the  most  important  changes,  and  would  be  as  many 
as  we  should  be  able  to  give  with  any  clearness.  The 
young  student  should  make  it  an  invariable  rule  never 
to  read  history  without  a  map  before  him ;  to  which 
should  be  added  plans  of  towns,  harbours,  &tc.  These 
should  be  conveniently  placed  under  the  eye,  separate 
if  possible  from  the  book  he  is  reading,  that  by  fre- 
quent glancing  upon  them  the  image  of  the  country 
may  be  indelibly  impressed  on  his  imagination. 

Besides  the  necessity  of  maps  for  understanding 
history,  the  memory  is  wonderfully  assisted  by  the 
local  association  which  they  supply.  The  battles  of 
Issus  and  the  Granicus  will  not  be  confounded  by 
those  who  have  taken  the  pains  to  trace  the  rivers  on 
whose  banks  they  were  fought :  the  exploits  of  Han- 
nibal are  connected  with  a  view  of  the  Alps,  and  the 
idea  of  Leonidas  is  inseparable  from  the  straits  of 
Thermopylae.  The  greater  accuracy  of  maps,  and 
still  more  the  facility,  from  the  arts  of  printing  and 
engraving,  of  procuring  them,  is  an  advantage  the 
moderns  have  over  the  ancients.  They  have  been 
perfected  by  slow  degrees.  The  Egyptians  and 
Chaldeans  studied  the  science  of  mensuration  ;  and 
the  first  map — rude  enough  no  doubt — is  said  to  have 
been  made  by  order  of  Sesostris  when  he  became  mas- 
ter of  Egypt.  Commerce  and  war  have  been  the  two 
parents  of  this  science.  Pharaoh  Necho  ordered  the 
Phoenicians  whom  he  sent  round  Africa,  to  make  a 


B2  ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY. 

survey  of  the  coast.  This  they  finished  in  three 
years.  Darius  caused  the  Ethiopic  Sea  and  the 
mouth  of  the  Indus  to  be  surveyed.  That  maps  were 
known  in  Greece  you  no  doubt  recollect  from  the 
pretty  story  of  Socrates  and  Alcibiades.  Anaximan- 
der,  a  disciple  of  Thales,  is  said  to  have  made  the  first 
sphere,  and  first  delineated  what  was  then  known  of 
the  countries  of  the  earth.  He  flourished  547  years 
before  Christ.  Herodotus  mentions  a  map  of  brass 
or  copper  which  was  presented  by  Aristagoras,  tyrant  of 
Miletus,  to  Cleomenes,  king  of  Sparta,  in  which  he 
had  described  the  known  world  with  its  seas  and 
rivers.  Alexander  the  Great  in  his  expedition  into 
Asia  took  two  geographers  with  him ;  and  from  their 
itineraries  many  things  have  been  copied  by  succeed- 
ing writers. 

From  Greece  the  science  of  geography  passed  to 
Rome.  The  enlightened  policy  of  the  Romans  cul- 
tivated it  as  a  powerful  means  of  extending  and  secur- 
ing their  dominion.  One  of  the  first  things  they  did 
was  to  make  roads,  for  which  it  was  necessary  to 
have  the  country  measured.  They  had  a  custom 
when  they  had  conquered  a  country,  to  have  a  paint- 
ed map  of  it  always  carried  aloft  in  their  triumphs. 
The  great  historian  Poly  bins  reconnoitred  under  a 
commission  from  Scipio  Emilianus  the  coasts  of  Afri- 
ca, Spain,  and  France,  and  measured  the  distances 
of  Hannibal's  march  over  the  Alps  and  Pyrenees. 
Julius  Ciesar  employed  men  of  science  to  survey  and 
measure  the  globe;  and  his  own  Commentaries  show 
his  attention  to  this  parts  of  knowledge.  Strabo,  a 
great  geographer  whose  works  are  extant,  flourished 
under  Augustus  ;  Pomponius  Mela  in  the  first  cen- 
tury. 

Many  of  the  Roman  itineraries  which  are  still  ex- 
tant, show  the  systematic  care  which  they  bestowed 
on  a  science  so  necessary  for  the  orderly  distribution 


ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY.  bS 

ami  government  of  their  large  dominions.  But  still 
it  was  late  before  Geograpfejr  was  settled  upon  its  true 
ha  sis, — astronomical  observations.  The  greater  part 
of  the  early  maps  were  laid  down  in  a  very  loose,  in- 
accurate manner  ;  and  where  particular  parts  were 
done  with  the  greatest  care,  yet  if  the  longitude  and 
latitude  were  wanting,  their  relative  situation  to  the 
rest  of  the  earth  could  not  be  known.  Some  attempts 
had  indeed  been  made  by  Hipparchus  and  Possido- 
nius,  Greek  philosophers,  to  settle  the  parallels  of 
latitude  by  the  length  of  the  days ;  but  the  foundation 
diey  had  laid  was  neglected  till  the  time  of  Ptolemy, 
who  nourished  at  Alexandria  about  150  years  after 
Christ,  under  Adrian  and  Antoninus  Pius.  This  is 
he  from  whom  the  Ptolemaic  system  took  its  name. 
He  diligently  compared  and  revised  the  ancient  maps 
and  charts,  correcting  their  errors  and  supplying  their 
defects  by  the  reports  of  travellers  and  navigators,  the 
measured  or  reputed  distances  of  maps  and  itineraries, 
and  astronomical  calculations,  all  digested  together ; 
he  reduced  geography  to  a  regular  system,  and  laid 
down  the  situation  of  places  according  to  minutes  and 
degrees  of  longitude  and  latitude  as  we  now  have 
them.  His  maps  were  in  general  use  till  the  last 
three  or  four  centuries,  in  which  time  the  progress  of 
the  moderns  in  the  knowledge  of  the  globe  we  in- 
habit has  thrown  at  a  great  distance  all  the  ancient 
geographers. 

We  are  now,  some  few  breaks  and  chasms  except- 
ed, pretty  well  acquainted  with  the  outline  of  the 
globe,  and  with  those  parts  of  it  with  which  we  are 
connected  by  our  commercial  or  political  relations; 
but  we  are  still  profoundly  ignorant  of  the  interior  of 
Africa,  and  imperfectly  acquainted  with  that  of  South 
America,  and  the  western  part  of  North  America. 
We   know  little  of  Thibet  and  the  central  parts  of 


84  ON  THE  USES   OF  HISTORY. 

Asia,  and  have   as  yet  only  touched  upon  the  great 
continent  of  New  Holland. 

The  hest  ancient  maps  are  those  of  D'Anville.  It 
has  required  great  learning  and  proportionate  skill  to 
bring  together  the  scattered  notices  which  are  found 
in  various  authors,  and  to  fix  the  position  of  places 
which  have  been  long  ago  destroyed  ;  very  often  the 
geographer  has  no  other  guide,  than  the  relation  of  the 
historian  that  such  a  place  is  within  six  or  eight  days' 
journey  from  another  place.  In  some  instances  the 
maps  of  Ptolemy  are  lately  come  into  repute  again, — 
as  in  his  delineation  of  the  course  of  the  Niger,  which 
is  thought  to  be  favoured  by  modern  discoveries. 
Major  Rennel  has  done  much  to  improve  the  geogra- 
phy of  India. 

There  are  many  valuable  maps  scattered  in  voyages 
and  travels,  and  many  of  the  atlases  contain  a  collec- 
tion sufficient  for  all  common  purposes  ;  but  a  com- 
plete collection  of  the  best  maps  and  charts,  with 
plans  of  harbours,  towns,  he.  becomes  an  object  of 
even  princely  expense.  The  French  took  the  lead 
in  this,  as  in  some  other  branches  of  science.  The 
late  empress  of  Russia  caused  a  geographical  survey 
to  be  taken  of  her  dominions,  which  has  much  im- 
proved our  knowledge  of  the  north-eastern  regions  of 
Europe  and  Asia.  We  have  now,  however,  both 
single  maps  and  atlases  which  yield  to  none  in  accu- 
racy or  elegance. 

Yours  affectionately. 


ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY.  85 

LETTER  IV. 

DEAR    LYDIA, 

Geography  addresses  itself  to  the  eye,  and  is 
easily  comprehended :  to  give  a  clear  idea  of  Chro- 
nology is  somewhat  more  difficult.  It  is  easy  to  de- 
fine it  by  saying  it  gives  an  answer  to  the  question, 
When  was  it  done  ?  but  the  meaning  of  the  when  is 
not  quite  so  obvious.  A  date  is  a  very  artificial  thing, 
and  the  world  had  existed  for  a  long  course  of  cen- 
turies before  men  were  aware  of  its  use  and  necessity. 
When  is  a  relative  term  ;  the  most  natural  applica- 
tion of  it  is,  Howr  long  ago,  reckoning  backwards  from 
the  present  moment.  Thus,  if  you  wTere  to  ask  an 
Indian  when  such  an  event  happened,  he  would  pro- 
bably say — So  many  harvests  ago,  when  I  could  but 
just  reach  the  boughs  of  yonder  tree  ; — in  the  time  of 
my  father,  grandfather,  great-grandfather  ;  still  mak- 
ing the  time  then  present  to  him,  the  date  from  which 
he  sets  out.  Even  where  a  different  method  is  well 
understood,  we  use  in  more  familiar  life  this  natural 
kind  of  chronology — The  year  before  I  wras  married, — 
when  Henry,  who  is  now  five  years  old,  was  born, — 
the  winter  of  the  hard  frost.  These  are  the  epochs 
which  mark  the  annals  of  domestic  life  more  readily 
and  with  greater  clearness,  so  far  as  the  real  idea  of 
time  is  concerned,  than  the  year  of  our  Lord,  as  long 
as  these  are  all  within  the  circle  of  our  personal  recol- 
lection. But  when  events  are  recorded,  the  relator 
may  be  forgotten,  and  when  again  occurs  :  "  When 
did  the  historian  live  ?  I  understand  the  relative 
chronology  of  his  narration  ;  I  know  how  the  events 
of  it  follow  one  another  ;  but  what  is  their  relation  to 
general  chronology,  to  time  as  it  relates  to  me  and  to 
other  events  ?  " 

8 


SG  ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORV. 

To  know  the  transactions  of  a  particular  reign,  that 
of  Cyrus  for  instance,  in  the  regular  order  in  which 
they  happened  in  that  reign,  but  not  to  know  where 
to  place  them  with  respect  to  the  history  of  other 
times  and  nations,  is  as  if  we  had  a  very  accurate 
map  of  a  small  island  existing  somewhere  in  the 
boundless  ocean,  and  could  lay  down  all  the  bearings 
and  distances  of  its  several  towns  and  villages,  but 
for  want  of  its  longitude  and  latitude  were  ignorant  of 
the  relative  position  of  the  island  itself.  Chronology 
supplies  this  longitude  and  latitude,  and  fixes  every 
event  to  its  precise  point  in  the  chart  of  universal 
time.  It  supplies  a  common  measure  by  which  I  may 
compare  the  relator  of  an  event  with  myself,  and  his 
now  or  ten  years  ago  with  the  present  now  or  ten 
years,  reckoning  from  the  time  in  which  I  live. 

In  order  to  find  such  a  common  measure,  men 
have  been  led  by  degrees  to  fix  upon  some  one  known 
event,  and  to  make  that  the  centre  from  which,  by 
regular  distances,  the  different  periods  of  time  are 
reckoned,  instead  of  making  the  present  time,  which 
is  always  varying,  and  every  man's  own  existence, 
the  centre. 

The  first  approach  to  such  a  mode  of  computing 
time  is  to  date  by  the  reigns  of  kings ;  which,  being 
public  objects  of  great  notoriety,  seem  to  offer  them- 
selves with  great  advantage  for  such  a  purpose.  The 
scripture  history,  which  is  the  earliest  of  histories,  has 
no  other  than  this  kind  of  successive  dates  :  "  Now 
it  came  to  pass  in  the  fifth  year  of  the  king  Heze- 
kiah."  "  And  the  time  that  Solomon  reigned  in  Jeru- 
salem over  all  Israel  was  forty  years  :  and  Solomon 
slept  with  his  fathers  ;  and  Rehoboam  his  son  reigned 
in  his  stead."  From  this  method  a  regular  chronolo- 
gy might  certainly  be  deduced,  if  we  had  the  whole 
unbroken  series  ;  but  unfortunately  there  are  many 


ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY.  87 

gaps  and  chasms  in  history ;  and  yon  easily  see 
that  if  any  links  of  the  chain  are  wanting,  the  whole 
computation  is  rendered  imperfect.  Besides,  it  re- 
quires a  tedious  calculation  to  bring  it  into  comparison 
with  other  histories  and  events.  To  say  that  an  event 
happened  in  the  tenth  year  of  the  reign  of  king  Solo- 
mon, gives  you  only  an  idea  of  the  time  relative  to 
the  histories  of  that  king,  but  leaves  you  quite  in  the 
dark  as  to  its  relation  with  the  time  you  live  in,  or 
with  the  events  of  the  Roman  history. 

We  want  therefore  an  universal  date,  like  a  lofty 
obelisk,  seen  by  all  the  country  round,  from  and  to 
which  every  distance  should  be  measured.  The  most 
obvious  that  offers  itself  for  this  purpose  is  the  crea- 
tion of  the  world,  an  event  equally  interesting  to  all ; 
to  us  the  beginning  of  time,  and  from  which  therefore 
time  would  flow  regularly  down  in  an  unbroken  stream 
from  the  earliest  to  the  latest  generations  of  the  human 
race.  This  would  probably  therefore  have  been  made 
use  of,  if  the  date  of  the  creation  itself  could  be  as- 
certained with  any  exactness  ;  but  as  chronologers 
differ  by  more  than  a  thousand  years  as  to  the  time 
of  that  event,  it  is  necessary  previously  to  mention 
what  system  is  made  use  of,  which  renders  this  a^ra 
obscure  and  inconvenient.  It  has  therefore  been 
found  more  convenient,  in  fact,  to  take  some  known 
event  within  the  limit  of  well  authenticated  kistory, 
and  to  reckon  from  that  fixed  point  backwards  and 
forwards.  As  we  cannot  find  the  head  of  the  river, 
and  know  not  its  termination,  we  must  raise  a  pillar 
upon  its  banks,  and  measure  our  distances  from  that, 
both  up  and  down  the  stream.  This  event  ought  to 
be  important,  conspicuous,  and  as  interesting  as  possi- 
ble, that  it  may  be  generally  received  ;  for  it  would 
spare  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  computation  if  all  the 
world  would  make  use  of  the  same  date.     This  how- 


^8  ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY^ 

ever  has  never  been  the  case,  chance  and  national 
vanity  having  had  their  full  share  in  settling  them. 

The  Greeks  reckoned  by  olympiads,  but  not  till 
more  than  sixty  years  after  the  death  of  Alexander 
the  Great.  The  Olympic  games  were  the  most  bril- 
liant assembly  in  Greece,  the  Greeks  were  very  fond 
of  them,  they  began  776  years  before  Christ,  and  each 
olympiad  includes  four  years.  Some  of  the  earlier 
Greek  historians  digested  their  histories  by  ages,  or 
by  the  succession  of  the  priestesses  of  Juno  at  Argos ; 
others  by  the  archons  of  Athens  or  the  kings  of  Lace- 
dremon.  Thucydides  uses  simply  the  beginning  of 
the  Peloponnesian  war,  the  subject  of  his  history  ;  for, 
writing  to  his  contemporaries,  it  seems  not  to  have 
occurred  to  him  that  another  date  would  ever  be 
necessary.  The  Arundelian  marbles,  composed  sixty 
years  after  the  death  of  Alexander  the  Great,  reckon 
backwards  from  the  then  present  time. 

The  Roman  sera  was  the  building  of  their  city,  the 
eternal  city  as  they  loved  to  call  it. 

The  Mahometans  date  from  the  Hegira,  or  flight 
of  Mahomet  from  Mecca,  his  birth-place,  to  Medina, 
A.  D.  622 ;  and  they  have  this  advantage,  that  they 
began  almost  immediately  to  use  it. 

The  sera  used  all  over  the  Christian  world  is  the 
birth  of  Christ.  This  was  adopted  as  a  date  about 
A.  D.  360 ;  and  though  there  is  an  uncertainty  of  a 
few  years,  which  are  in  dispute,  the  accuracy  is  suffi- 
cient for  any  present  purpose. 

The  reign  of  Nabonassar,  the  first  king  of  Babylon, 
of  Yesdigerd,  the  last  king  of  Persia, — who  was  con- 
quered by  the  Saracens, — and  of  the  Seleucida?  of 
Syria,  have  likewise  furnished  a?ras. 

*  Julius  Scaliger  formed  an  aera  which  he  called  the 
Julian  period,  being  a  cycle  of  7980  years,  produced 
by  multiplying  several  cycles  into  one  another,  so  as 


ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY.  89 

to  carry  us  back  to  a  period  7G4  years  before  the 
creation  of  the  world.  This  aera,  standing  out  of  all 
history,  like  the  fulcrum  which  Archimedes  wished  for, 
and  independent  of  variation  or  possibility  of  mistake, 
was  a  very  grand  idea  ;  and  in  measuring  every  thing 
by  itself,  measured  it  by  the  eternal  truth  of  the  laws 
of  the  heavenly  bodies.  But  it  is  not  greatly  employ- 
ed, the  common  aera  serving  all  ordinary  purposes. 
In  modern  histories  the  olympiads,  Roman  aeras,  and 
others,  are  reduced,  in  the  margin,  to  the  year  of  our 
Lord,  or  of  the  creation. 

Such  is  the  nature  of  aeras,  now  in  such  common 
use  that  we  can  with  difficulty  conceive  the  confusion 
in  which,  for  the  want  of  them,  all  the  early  part  of 
history  is  involved,  and  the  strenuous  labours  of  the 
most  learned  men  which  have  been  employed  in  ar- 
ranging them  and  reducing  history  to  the  order  in 
which  we  now  have  it. 

The  earliest  history  which  we  possess,  as  we  have 
before  observed,  is  that  of  the  Jewish  scriptures ; 
these  carry  us  from  the  creation  to  about  the  time  of 
Herodotus  :  having  no  date,  we  are  obliged  to  com- 
pute from  generations,  and  to  take  the  reigns  of  kings 
where  they  are  given.  But  a  great  schism  occurs  at 
the  very  outset.  The  Septuagint  translation  of  the 
Mosaic  history  into  Greek,  which  was  made  by  order 
of  Ptolemy  Philadelphia,  differs  from  the  Hebrew 
text  by  1400  years  from  the  creation  to  the  birth  of 
Abraham. 

The  chronology  of  the  Assyrian  and  Babylonish 
monarchies  is  involved  in  inextricable  difficulties  ;  nor 
are  we  successful  in  harmonizing  the  Greek  with  the 
oriental  writers  of  history.  The  Persian  historians 
make  no  mention  of  the  defeat  of  Xerxes  by  the 
Greeks,  or  that  of  Darius  by  Alexander.  All  nations 
have  had  the  vanity  to  make  their  origin  mount  *!? 
8* 


90  ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORF, 

high  as  possible  ;  and  they  have  often  invented  series 
of  kings,  or  have  reckoned  the  contemporary  indivi- 
duals of  different  dynasties  as  following  each  other  in 
regular  succession,  as  if  one  should  take  the  kings  of 
the  Heptarchy  singly  instead  of  together. 

You  will  perhaps  ask,  if  we  have  no  aeras,  what 
have  we  to  reckon  by  ?  We  have  generations  and 
successions  of  kings.  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  who  joined 
wonderful  sagacity  to  profound  learning  and  astrono- 
mical skill,  made  very  great  reforms  in  the  ancient 
chronology.  He  pointed  out  the  difference  between 
generations  and  successions  of  kings.  A  generation 
is  not  the  life  of  man  ;  it  is  the  time  that  elapses  be- 
fore a  man  sees  his  successor  ;  and  this,  reckoning  to 
the  birth  of  the  eldest  son,  is  estimated  at  about  thirty 
years.  The  succession  of  kings  would  seem  at  first 
sight  to  be  the  same,  and  so  it  had  been  reckoned  ; 
but  Newton  corrected  it,  on  the  principle  that  kings 
are  often  cut  off  prematurely  in  turbulent  times,  or  are 
succeeded  either  by  their  brothers,  or  by  their  uncles, 
or  others  older  than  themselves.  The  lines  of  kings 
of  France,  England,  and  other  countries  within  the 
range  of  exact  chronology,  confirmed  this  principle. 
He  therefore  rectified  all  the  ancient  chronology  ac- 
cording to  it ;  and  with  the  assistance  of  astronomical 
observations  he  found  reason  to  allow,  as  the  average 
length  of  a  reign,  about  eighteen  or  twenty  years. 

But  after  all,  great  part  of  the  chronology  of  ancient 
history  is  founded  upon  conjecture  and  clouded  with 
uncertainty. 

Although  I  recommend  to  you  a  constant  attention 
to  chronology,  I  do  not  think  it  desirable  to  load  your 
memory  with  a  great  number  of  specific  dates,  both 
because  it  would  be  too  great  a  burthen  on  the  reten- 
tive powers,  and  because  it  is,  after  all,  not  the  best 
way  of  attaining  clear  ideas  on  the  subjects  of  history. 


ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY.  91 

In  order  to  do  this,  it  is  necessary  to  have  in  your 
mind  the  relative  situation  of  other  countries  at  the 
time  of  any  event  recorded  in  one  of  them.  For 
instance,  if  you  have  got  by  heart  the  dates  of  the 
accession  of  the  kings  of  Europe,  and  want  to  know 
whether  John  lived  at  the  time  of  the  crusades,  and 
in  what  state  the  Greek  empire  was,  you  cannot  tell 
without  an  arithmetical  process,  which  perhaps  you 
may  not  be  quick  enough  to  make.  You  cannot  tell 
whether  Constantinople  had  been  taken  by  the  Turks 
when  the  Sicilian  Vespers  happened  ;  for  each  fact  is 
insulated  in  your  mind  ;  and  indeed  your  dates  give 
you  only  the  dry  catalogue  of  accessions.  Nay,  you 
may  read  separate  histories,  and  yet  not  bring  them 
together  if  the  countries  be  remote.  Each  exists  in 
your  mind  separately,  and  you  have  at  no  time  the 
state  of  the  world.  But  you  ought  to  have  an  idea  at 
once  of  the  whole  world,  as  far  as  history  will  give  it. 
You  do  not  see  truly  what  the  Greeks  were,  except 
you  know  that  the  British  Isles  were  then  barbarous. 
A  few  dates  therefore,  perfectly  learned,  may  suf- 
fice, and  will  serve  as  landmarks  to  prevent  your  going 
far  astray  in  the  rest :  but  it  will  be  highly  useful  to 
connect  the  histories  you  read  in  such  a  manner  in 
your  own  mind,  that  you  may  be  able  to  refer  from 
one  to  the  other,  and  to  form  them  all  into  a  whole. 
For  this  purpose,  it  is  very  desirable  to  observe  and 
retain  in  your  memory  certain  coincidences,  which 
may  link,  as  it  were,  two  nations  together.  Thus  you 
may  remember  that  Haroun  al  Raschid  sent  to  Char- 
lemagne the  first  clock  that  was  seen  in  Europe.  If 
you  are  reading  the  history  of  Greece  when  it  flourish- 
ed most,  and  want  to  know  what  the  Romans  were 
doing  at  the  same  time,  you  may  recollect  that  they 
sent  to  Greece  for  instruction  when  they  wanted  to 
draw  up  the  laws  of  the  Twelve  Tables.     Solon  and 


92  ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY. 

Croesus  connect  the  history  of  Lesser  Asia  with  that 
of  Greece.  Egbert  was  brought  up  in  the  court  of 
Charlemagne  ;  Philip  Augustus  of  France  and  Richard 
I.  of  England  fought  in  the  same  crusade  against  Sal- 
adin.  Queen  Elizabeth  received  the  French  ambas- 
sador in  deep  mourning  after  the  massacre  of  St. 
Bartholomew. 

It  may  be  desirable  to  keep  one  kingdom  as  a  meter 
for  the  rest.  Take  for  this  purpose  first  the  Jews, 
then  the  Greeks,  the  Romans,  and,  because  it  is  so, 
our  own  country  :  then  harmonize  and  connect  all 
the  other  dates  with  these. 

That  the  literary  history  of  a  nation  may  be  con- 
nected with  the  political,  study  also  biography,  and 
endeavour  to  link  men  of  science  and  literature  and 
artists  with  political  characters.  Thus  Hippocrates 
was  sent  for  to  the  plague  of  Athens ;  Leonardo  da 
Vinci  died  in  the  arms  of  Francis  I.  Often  an  anec- 
dote, a  smart  saying,  will  indissoluble  fix  a  date. 

Sometimes  you  may  take  a  long  reign,  as  that  of 
Elizabeth  or  Lewis  XIV.,  and  making  that  the  centre, 
mark  all  the  contemporary  sovereigns,  and  also  the 
men  of  letters.  Another  way  is,  to  make  a  line  of  life, 
composed  of  distinguished  characters  who  touch  each 
other.  It  will  be  of  great, service  to  you  in  this  view 
to  study  Dr.  Priestley's  biographical  chart ;  and  of 
still  greater,  to  make  one  for  yourself,  and  fill  it  by 
degrees  as  your  acquaintance  with  history  extends. 
Marriages  connect  the  history  of  different  kingdoms  ; 
as  those  of  Mary  queen  of  Scots  and  Francis  II., 
Philip  II.  and  Mary  of  England. 

These  are  the  kind  of  dates  which  make  every 
thing  lie  in  the  mind  in  its  proper  order  ;  they  also 
take  fast  hold  of  it.  If  you  forget  the  exact  date  by 
years,  you  have  nothing  left ;  but  of  circumstances 
vou  never  lose  all  idea.     As  we  come  nearer  to  our 


ON  THE  USES  OF  HISTORY.  93 

own  times,  dates  must  be  more  exact :  a  few  years 
more  or  less  signify  little  in  the  destruction  of  Troy, 
if  we  knew  it  exactly  ;  but  the  conclusion  of  the 
American  war  should  be  accurately  known,  or  it  will 
throw  other  events  near  it  into  confusion. 

In  so  extensive  a  study  no  auxiliary  is  to  be  ne- 
glected :  Poetry  impresses  both  geography  and  his- 
tory in  a  most  agreeable  manner  upon  those  who  are 
fond  of  it.     Thus, 

" fair  Austria  spreads  her  mournful  charms, 

The  queen,  the  beauty,  sets  the  world  in  arms." 

A  short,  lively  character  in  verse  is  never  forgotten  : 

"  From  Macedonia's  madman  to  the  Swede." 

Historic  plays  deeply  impress,  but  should  be  read  with 
caution.  We  take  our  ideas  from  Shakspeare  more 
than  history  :  he,  indeed,  copied  pretty  exactly  from 
the  chroniclers,  but  other  dramatic  writers  have  taken 
great  liberties  both  with  characters  and  events. 

Painting  is  a  good  auxiliary ;  and  though  in  this 
country  history  is  generally  read  before  we  see  pic- 
tures, they  mutually  illustrate  one  another  :  painting 
also  shows  the  costume.  In  France,  where  pictures 
are  more  accessible,  there  is  more  knowledge  gene- 
rally diffused  of  common  history.  Many  have  learned 
scripture  history  from  the  rude  figures  on  Dutch  tiles. 

I  will  conclude  with  the  remark,  that  though  the 
beginner  in  history  may  and  ought  to  study  dates  and 
epochas  for  his  guidance,  chronology  can  never  be 
fully  pessessed  till  after  history  has  been  long  studied 
and  carefully  digested. 

Farewell  ;  and  believe  me 

Yours  affectionately. 


94 
FASHION 

A  VISION. 


Young  as  you  are,  my  dear  Flora,  you  cannot  but 
have  noticed  the  eagerness  with  which  questions,  rela- 
tive to  civil  liberty,  have  been  discussed  in  every 
society.  To  break  the  shackles  of  oppression,  and 
assert  the  native  rights  of  man,  is  esteemed  by  many 
among  the  noblest  efforts  of  heroic  virtue  ;  but  vain  is 
the  possession  of  political  liberty  if  there  exists  a  ty- 
rant of  our  own  creation,  who,  without  law  or  reason, 
or  even  external  force,  exercises  over  us  the  most 
despotic  authority;  whose  jurisdiction  is  extended 
over  every  part  of  private  and  domestic  life  ;  controls 
our  pleasures,  fashions  our  garb,  cramps  our  motions, 
fills  our  lives  with  vain  cares  and  restless  anxiety. 
The  worst  slavery  is  that  which  we  voluntarily  impose 
upon  ourselves  ;  and  no  chains  are  so  cumbrous  and 
galling  as  diose  which  we  are  pleased  to  wear  by  way 
of  grace  and  ornament.  Musing  upon  this  idea,  gave 
rise  to  the  following  dream  or  vision  : 

Methought  I  was  in  a  country  of  the  strangest  and 
most  singular  appearance  I  had  ever  beheld  :  the  riv- 
ers were  forced  into  jet-d'eaus,  and  wasted  in  artificial 
water-works  ;  the  lakes  were  fashioned  by  the  hand 
of  art ;  the  roads  were  sanded  with  spar  and  gold- 
dust  ;  the  trees  all  bore  the  marks  of  the  shears,  they 
were  bent  and  twisted  into  the  most  whimsical  forms, 
and  connected  together  by  festoons  of  ribon  and  silk 
fringe  :  the  wild  flowers  were  transplanted  into  vases 
of  fine  china,  and  painted  with  artificial  white  and  red. 


FASHION'.  95 

The  disposition  of  the  ground  was  full  of  fancy, 
but  grotesque  and  unnatural  in  the  highest  degree ;  it 
was  all  highly  cultivated,  and  bore  the  marks  of  won- 
derful industry  ;  but  among  its  various  productions  I 
could  hardly  discern  one  that  was  of  any  use. 

My  attention,  however,  was  soon  called  off  from 
the  scenes  of  inanimate  life,  by  the  view  of  the  inhab- 
itants, whose  form  and  appearance  were  so  very  pre- 
posterous, and,  indeed,  so  unlike  any  thing  human, 
that  I  fancied  myself  transported  to  the  country  of 

"  The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders  :" 

for  the  heads  of  many  of  these  people  were  swelled 
to  an  astonishing  size,  and  seemed  to  be  placed  in  the 
middle  of  their  bodies.  Of  some,  the  ears  were  dis- 
tended till  they  hung  upon  the  shoulders ;  and  of 
others,  the  shoulders  were  raised  till  they  met  the  ears  : 
there  was  not  one  free  from  some  deformity,  or  mon- 
strous swelling,  in  one  part  or  other ;  either  it  was 
before,  or  behind,  or  about  the  hips,  or  the  arms  were 
puffed  up  to  an  unusual  thickness,  or  the  throat  was 
increased  to  the  same  size  with  the  poor  objects  once 
exhibited  under  the  name  of  the  monstrous  Craws  : 
some  had  no  necks  ;  others  had  necks  that  reached 
almost  to  their  waists  ;  the  bodies  of  some  were  bloat- 
ed up  to  such  a  size,  that  they  could  scarcely  enter  a 
pair  of  folding  doors  ;  and  others  had  suddenly  sprout- 
ed up  to  such  a  disproportionate  height,  that  they  could 
not  sit  upright  in  their  loftiest  carriages. 

Many  shocked  me  with  the  appearance  of  being 
nearly  cut  in  two,  like  a  wasp ;  and  I  was  alarmed  at 
the  sight  of  a  few,  in  whose  faces,  otherwise  very  fair 
and  healthy,  I  discovered  an  eruption  of  black  spots, 
which  I  feared  was  the  fatal  sign  of  some  pestilential 
disorder. 


9G  FASHION. 

The  sight  of  these  various  and  uncouth  deformities 
inspired  me  with  much  pity  ;  which  however  was  soon 
changed  into  disgust,  when  I  perceived,  with  great  sur- 
prise, that  every  one  of  these  unfortunate  men  and  wo- 
men was  exceeding  proud  of  his  own  peculiar  defor- 
mity, and  endeavoured  to  attract  my  notice  to  it  as  much 
as  possible.  A  lady,  in  particular,  who  had  a  swelling 
under  her  throat,  larger  than  any  goitre  in  the  Valais, 
and  which,  I  am  sure,  by  its  enormous  projection,  pre- 
vented her  from  seeing  the  path  she  walked  in,  brushed 
by  me  with  an  air  of  the  greatest  self-complacency, 
and  asked  me  if  she  was  not  a  charming  creature  ? 

But  by  this  time  I  found  myself  surrounded  by  an 
immense  crowd,  who  were  all  pressing  along  in  one 
direction ;  and  I  perceived  that  1  was  drawn  along 
with  them  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  which  grew 
stronger  every  moment.  I  asked  whither  wTe  were 
hurrying  with  such  eager  steps  ?  and  was  told  that  we 
were  going  to  the  court  of  Queen  Fashion,  the  great 
Diana  whom  all  the  world  worshippeth.  I  would  have 
retired,  but  felt  myself  impelled  to  go  on,  though  with- 
out being  sensible  of  any  outward  force. 

When  I  came  to  the  royal  presence,  I  was  astonish- 
ed at  the  magnificence  I  saw  around  me.  The  queen 
was  sitting  on  a  throne,  elegantly  fashioned  in  the 
form  of  a  shell,  and  inlaid  with  gems  and  mother-of- 
pearl.  It  was  supported  by  a  camelion,  formed  of  a 
single  emerald.  She  was  dressed  in  a  light  robe  of 
changeable  silk,  which  fluttered  about  her  in  a  profu- 
sion of  fantastic  folds,  that  imitated  the  form  of  clouds, 
and  like  them  were  continually  changing  their  appear- 
ance. In  one  hand  she  held  a  rouge-box,  and  in  the 
other  one  of  those  optical  glasses  which  distort  figures 
in  length  or  in  breadth  according  to  the  position  in 
which  they  are  held.  At  the  foot  of  the  throne  was 
displayed   a  profusion  of  the  richest  productions  of 


FASHION.  07 

every  quarter  of  the  globe,  tributes  from  land  and  sea, 
from  every  animal  and  plant;  perfumes,  sparkling 
stones,  drops  of  pearl,  chains  of  gold,  webs  of  the 
finest  linen ;  wreaths  of  flowers,  the  produce  of  art, 
which  vied  with  the  most  delicate  productions  of  na- 
ture ;  forests  of  feathers  waving  their  brilliant  colours 
in  the  air  and  canopying  the  throne  ;  glossy  silks,  net- 
work of  lace,  silvery  ermine,  soft  folds  of  vegetable 
wool,  rustling  paper,  and  shining  spangles  ; — the  whole 
intermixed  with  pendants  and  streamers  of  the  gayest 
tinctured  ribbon. 

All  these  together  made  so  brilliant  an  appearance 
that  my  eyes  were  at  first  dazzled,  and  it  was  some 
time  before  I  recovered  myself  enough  to  observe  the 
ceremonial  of  the  court.  Near  the  throne,  and  its 
chief  supports,  stood  the  queen's  two  prime  ministers, 
Caprice  on  one  side,  and  Vanity  on  the  other.  Two 
officers  seemed  chiefly  busy  among  the  attendants. 
One  of  them  was  a  man  with  a  pair  of  shears  in  his 
hand  and  a  goose  by  his  side, — a  mysterious  emblem, 
of  which  I  could  not  fathom  the  meaning  :  he  sat 
cross-legged,  like  the  great  lama  of  the  Tartars.  He 
was  busily  employed  in  cutting  out  coats  and  gar- 
ments ;  not,  however,  like  Dorcas,  for  the  poor — nor, 
indeed,  did  they  seem  intended  for  any  mortal  what- 
ever, so  ill  were  they  adapted  to  the  shape  of  the  hu- 
man body.  Some  of  the  garments  were  extravagant- 
ly large,  others  as  preposterously  small :  of  others,  it 
was  difficult  to  guess  to  what  part  of  the  person  they 
were  meant  to  be  applied.  Here  were  coverings, 
which  did  not  cover  ;  ornaments,  which  disfigured ; 
and  defences  against  the  weather,  more  slight  and 
delicate  than  what  they  were  meant  to  defend ;  but 
all  were  eagerly  caught  up,  without  distinction,  by  the 
crowd  of  votaries  who  were  waiting  to  receive  them. 

The  other  officer  was  dressed  in  a  white  succinct 
9 


98  FASHION. 

linen  garment,  like  a  priest  of  the  lower  order.  He 
moved  in  a  eloud  of  incense  more  highly  scented  than 
the  breezes  of  Arabia  ;  he  carried  a  tuft  of  the  whitest 
down  of  the  swan  in  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  a  small 
iron  instrument,  heated  redhot,  which  he  brandished  in 
the  air.  It  was  with  infinite  concern  I  beheld  the 
Graces  hound  at  the  foot  of  the  throne,  and  obliged  to 
officiate,  as  handmaids,  under  the  direction  of  these 
two  officers. 

I  now  began  to  inquire  by  what  laws  this  queen 
governed  her  subjects,  but  soon  found  her  administra- 
tion was  that  of  the  most  arbitrary  tyrant  ever  known. 
Her  laws  are  exactly  the  reverse  of  those  of  the  Medes 
and  Persians  ;  for  they  are  changed  every  day,  and 
every  hour :  and  what  makes  the  matter  still  more 
perplexing,  they  are  in  no  written  code,  nor  even  made 
public  by  proclamation  :  they  are  only  promulgated  by 
whispers,  an  obscure  sign,  or  turn  of  the  eye,  which 
those  only  who  have  the  happiness  to  stand  near  the 
queen  can  catch  with  any  degree  of  precision  :  yet 
the  smallest  transgression  of  the  laws  is  severely  pun- 
ished 5  not  indeed  by  fines  or  imprisonment,  but  by  a 
sort  of  interdict  similar  to  that  wliich  in  superstitious 
times  was  laid  by  the  Pope  on  disobedient  princes, 
and  which  operated  in  such  a  manner  that  no  one 
would  eat,  drink,  or  associate  with  the  forlorn  culprit, 
and  he  was  almost  deprived  of  the  use  of  fire  and 
water. 

This  difficulty  of  discovering  the  will  of  the  goddess 
occasioned  so  much  crowding  to  be  near  the  throne, 
such  jostling  and  elbowing  of  one  another,  that  I  was 
glad  to  retire  and  observe  what  I  could  among  the 
scattered  crowd  :  and  the  first  thing  I  took  notice  of 
was  various  instruments  of  torture  which  every  where 
met  my  eyes.  Torture  has,  in  most  other  govern- 
ment of  Europe  been  abolished  by  the  mild  spirit  of 


FASHION.  99 

the  times ;  but  it  reigns  here  in  full  force  and  terror. 
I  saw  officers  of  this  cruel  court  employed  in  boring 
holes  with  redhot  wires,  in  the  ears,  nose,  and  various 
parts  of  the  body,  and  then  distending  them  with  the 
weight  of  metal  chains,  or  stones,  cut  into  a  variety  of 
shapes  :  some  had  invented  a  contrivance  for  cramp- 
ing the  feet  in  such  a  manner  that  many  are  lamed  by 
it  for  their  whole  lives.  Others  I  saw,  slender  and 
delicate  in  their  form  and  naturally  nimble  as  the 
young  antelope,  who  were  obliged  to  carry  constantly 
about  with  them  a  cumbrous  unwieldy  machine,  of  a, 
pyramidal  form,  several  ells  in  circumference. 

But  the  most  common  and  one  of  the  worst  instru- 
ments of  torture,  was  a  small  machine  armed  with  fish- 
bone and  ribs  of  steel,  wide  at  top  but  extremely  small 
at  bottom.  In  this  detestable  invention  the  queen  or- 
ders the  bodies  of  her  female  subjects  to  be  inclosed  : 
it  is  then,  by  means  of  silk  cords,  drawn  closer  and 
closer  at  intervals,  till  the  unhappy  victim  can  scarce- 
ly breathe  ;  and  they  have  found  the  exact  point  that 
can  be  borne  without  fainting',  which,  however,  not 
unfrequently  happens.  The  flesh  is  often  excoriated, 
and  the  very  ribs  bent,  by  this  cruel  process.  Yet 
what  astonished  me  more  than  all  the  rest,  these  suf- 
ferings are  borne  with  a  degree  of  fortitude  which,  in  a 
better  cause,  would  immortalize  a  hero  or  canonize  a 
saint.  The  Spartan  who  suffered  the  fox  to  eat  into 
his  vitals,  did  not  bear  pain  with  greater  resolution  : 
and  as  the  Spartan  mothers  brought  their  children  to 
be  scourged  at  the  altar  of  Diana,  so  do  the  mothers 
here  bring  their  children, — and  chiefly  those  whose 
tender  sex  one  would  suppose  excused  them  from 
such  exertions, — and  early  inure  them  to  this  cruel 
discipline.  But  neither  Spartan,  nor  Dervise,  nor 
Bonze,  nor  Carthusian  monk,  ever  exercised  more 
unrelenting  severities  over  their  bodieSj    than  these 


100  FASHION. 

young  zealots  :  indeed  the  first  lesson  they  are  taught, 
is  a  surrender  of  their  own  inclinations  and  an  im- 
plicit obedience  to  the  commands  of  the  Goddess. 

But  they  have,  besides,  a  more  solemn  kind  of  dedi- 
cation, something  similar  to  the  rite  of  confirmation. 
When  a  young  woman  approaches  the  marriageable 
age,  she  is  led  to  the  altar  :  her  hair,  which  before 
fell  loosely  about  her  shoulders,  is  tied  up  in  a  tress, 
sweet  oils  drawn  from  roses  and  spices  are  poured 
upon  it ;  she  is  involved  in  a  cloud  of  scented  dust, 
and  invested  with  ornaments  under  which  she  can 
scarcely  move.  After  this  solemn  ceremony,  which 
is  generally  concluded  by  a  dance  round  the  altar,  the 
damsel  is  obliged  to  a  still  stricter  conformity  than  be- 
fore to  the  laws  and  customs  of  the  court,  and  any 
deviation  from  them  is  severely  punished. 

The  courtiers  of  Alexander,  it  is  said,  flattered  him 
by  carrying  their  heads  on  one  side,  because  he  had 
the  misfortune  to  have  a  wry  neck  ;  but  all  adulation 
is  poor,  compared  to  what  is  practised  in  this  court. 
Sometimes  the  queen  will  lisp  and  stammer, — and 
then  none  of  her  attendants  can  speak  plain  ;  some- 
times she  chooses  to  totter  as  she  walks, — and  then 
they  are  seized  with  sudden  lameness  :  according 
as  she  appears  half  undressed,  or  veiled  from  head  to 
foot,  her  subjects  become  a  procession  of  nuns,  or  a 
troop  of  Bacchanalian  nymphs.  I  could  not  help  ob- 
serving, however,  that  those  who  stood  at  the  greatest 
distance  from  the  throne  were  the  most  extravagant  in 
their  imitation. 

I  was  by  this  time  thoroughly  disgusted  with  the 
character  of  a  sovereign  at  once  so  light  and  so  cruel, 
so  fickle  and  so  arbitrary,  when  one  who  stood  next 
me  bade  me  attend  to  still  greater  contradictions  in  her 
character,  and  such  as  might  serve  to  soften  the  indig- 
nation I  had  conceived.      He  took  me  to  the  back  of 


FASHION.  101 

the  throne,  and  made  me  take  notice  of  a  number  of 
industrious  poor,  to  whom  the  queen  was  secretly  dis- 
tributing bread.  I  saw  the  Genius  of  Commerce 
doing  her  homage,  and  discovered  the  British  cross 
woven  into  the  insignia  of  her  dignity. 

While  I  was  musing  on  these  things,  a  murmur 
arose  among  the  crowd,  and  I  was  told  that  a  young 
votary  was  approaching.  I  turned  my  head,  and  saw 
a  light  figure,  the  folds  of  whose  garment  showed  the 
elegant  turn  of  the  limbs  they  covered,  tripping  along 
with  the  step  of  a  nymph.  I  soon  knew  it  to  be  your- 
self:— I  saw  you  led  up  to  the  altar, — I  saw  your 
beautiful  hair  tied  in  artificial  tresses,  and  its  bright 
gloss  stained  with  coloured  dust, — I  even  fancied  I 
beheld  produced  the  dreadful  instruments  of  torture  ; 
— my  emotions  increased  : — I  cried  out,  "  O  spare 
her  !  spare  my  Flora  !  "  with  so  much  vehemence 
that  I  awaked. 


9* 


102 


TO  MISS  D** 


May  never  less  of  Mirth  than  now 
Sit  on  thy  smooth  unclouded  brow  ! 
May  never  care  those  furrows  trace 
Which  might  her  softer  lines  efface ! 
His  richest  robe  may  Hymen  wear, 
His  brightest  torch  and  gayest  air  ! 
And  O  !   where'er  he  builds  thy  bower, 
May  joy  attend  the  chosen  hour  ! 
May  Mirth  and  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  scatter  roses  at  thy  feet ! 
Like  this,  may  every  opening  year 
Willi  some  new  blessing  fraught  appear ; 
With  sprightly  hopes  and  wishes  glow, 
And  promise  much,  and  more  bestow  !  — 
But  what  shall  we  forsaken  do, 
When  Mirth  and  Pleasure  rly  with  you  ? 


103 


ON  THE  BIRTH 

OF 

A  FRIEND'S  ELDEST  SON. 


Incipe,  parve  puer,  risu  cognoscere  matrem. 


Welcome,  little  helpless  stranger ; 

Welcome  to  the  light  of  day  ; 
Smile  upon  thy  happy  mother, 

Smile,  and  chase  her  pains  away. 

Lift  thine  eyes  and  look  around  thee  ; 

Various  Nature  courts  thy  sight, 
Spreads  for  thee  her  flowery  carpet ; 

Earth  was  made  for  thy  delight. 

Welcome  to  a  mother's  bosom  ; 

Welcome  to  a  father's  arms  ; 
Heir  to  all  thy  father's  virtues, 

Heir  to  all  thy  mother's  charms. 

Joy  thou  bring' st,  but  mix'd  with  trouble, 
Anxious  joys  and  tender  fears, 

Pleasing  hopes,  and  mingled  sorrows, 
Smiles  of  transport,  dash'd  with  tears. 

Who  can  say  what  lies  before  thee, 
Calm  or  tempest,  peace  or  strife  ; 

With  what  turns  of  various  fortune 
Fate  shall  mark  thy  chequer'd  life. 

Who  can  tell  what  eager  passions 
In  this  little  heart  shall  beat, 

When  ambition,  love,  or  glory, 
Shall  invade  this  peaceful  seat 


104  ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  A  FRIEND'S  SON. 

Who  can  tell  how  wide  the  branches 
Of  this  tender  plant  may  spread, 

While  beneath  its  ample  shadow 
Swains  may  rest,  and  flocks  be  fed. 

Angels  guard  thee,  lovely  blossom, 

And  avert  each  hovering  ill ! 
Crown  thy  parents'  largest  wishes, 

And  their  fondest  hopes  fulfil. 


105 
EPITAPH  ON  A  GOLDFINCH. 


Here  lieth, 

aged   three   moons   and  four   days, 

the  body  of  Richard  Acanthis, 

a  young  creature 
of  unblemished  life  and  character- 
He  was  taken  in  his  callow  infancy, 
from  under  the  wing 
of  a  tender  parent, 
by  the  rough  and  pitiless  hands 
of  a  two-legged  animal 
without  feathers. 
Though  born  with  the  most  aspiring  dispositions, 
and  unbounded  love  of  freedom, 
he  was  closely  confined  in  a  grated  prison, 
and  scarcely  permitted  to  view  those  fields, 
to  the  possession  of  which 
he  had  a  natural  and  undoubted 
charter. 
Deeply  sensible  of  this  infringement 
of  his  native  and  inalienable  rights, 
he  was  often  heard  to  petition  for  redress  ; 
not  with  rude  and  violent  clamours, 
but 
in  the  most  plaintive  notes 
of  melodious  sorrow. 
At  length, 
wearied  with  fruitless  efforts  to  escape, 
his  indignant  spirit 
burst  the  prison  which  his  body  could  not, 
and  left  behind 
a  lifeless  heap  of  beauteous  feathers. 
Reader, 
if  suffering  innocence  can  hope  for  retribution, 
deny  not  to  the  gentle  shade 
of  this  unfortunate  captive 
the  natural  though  uncertain  hope 
of  animating  some  happier  form, 
or  Uying  his  new-fledged  pinions 
in  some  humble  Elysium  ; 
beyond  the  reach  of  Man. 
the  tyrant 
of  this  lower  universe. 


106 


THE  MORNING  REPAST. 


When  Apollo  had  left  the  bed  of  Thetis,  and  with 
his  fiery  horses  was  prancing  up  the  eastern  hills,  we 
shook  off  the  chains  of  Somnus,  and  having  attired 
ourselves  and  performed  the  usual  ablutions,  descend- 
ed into  the  hall  of  banquets.  The  table  was  covered 
with  the  finest  looms  of  Ireland,  and  spread  with  a 
variety  of  cates  well  calculated  to  incite  the  lazy  ap- 
petite. 

Our  nostrils  were  regaled  by  the  grateful  steams 
of  the  sun-burnt  berry  of  jlocha,  sent  forth  from  vases 
formed  of  the  precious  metal  of  Potosi.  The  rep-tst 
wTas  rendered  more  substantial  by  the  gifts  of  Ceres 
and  of  Pales,  and  painted  vessels  of  porcelain  were 
filled  with  the  infusion  of  the  Indian  leaf,  rendered 
more  grateful  by  the  saccharine  juices  of  the  Ameri- 
can cane,  and  crowned  with  rich  streams  pressed 
from  the  milky  mother  of  the  herd. 

Our  company  then  separated  to  pursue  their  various 
occupations. 


10? 


DESCRIPTION 

OF 

TWO    SISTERS. 


DEAR  COUSIN, 

Our  conversation  last  night  upon  beauties,  put  me 
in  mind  of  two  charming  sisters,  with  whom  I  think 
you  must  be  acquainted  as  well  as  I,  though  they  were 
not  in  your  list  of  belles.  Their  charms  are  very 
different  however ;  the  youngest  is  generally  thought 
the  handsomest,  and  yet  other  beauties  shine  more  in 
her  company  than  in  her  sister's  ;  whether  it  be  that 
her  gay  looks  diffuse  a  lustre  on  all  around,  while  her 
sister's  beauty  has  an  air  of  majesty  which  strikes  with 
awe,  or  that  the  younger  sets  every  one  she  is  with 
in  the  fairest  light,  and  discovers  perfections  which 
were  before  concealed,  whilst  the  elder  seems  only 
solicitous  to  set  off  her  own  person  and  throw  a  shade 
upon  every  one  else  :  yet,  what  you  will  think  strange, 
it  is  she  who  is  generally  preferred  for  a  confidant ; 
for  her  sister,  with  all  her  amiable  qualities,  cannot 
keep  a  secret. 

O  !  what  an  eye  the  younger  has,  as  if  she  could 
look  a  person  through  ;  yet  modest  is  her  counte- 
nance, even  and  composed  her  pace,  and  she  treads  so 
softly — "  Smooth  sliding  without  step,"  as  Milton  says. 
She  seldom  meets  you  without  blushing, — her  sister 
cannot  blush, — she  dresses  very  gaily,  sometimes  in 
clouded  silks,  which  indeed  she  first  brought  into 
fashion,  but  blue  is  her  most  becoming  colour,  and  she 


108  DESCRIPTION  OF  TWO  SISTERS. 

generally  appears  in  it.  Now  and  then,  she  wears  a 
very  rich  scarf,  or  sash,  braided  with  all  manner  of 
colours. 

The  elder,  like  the  Spanish  ladies,  dresses  in  black 
in   order  to  set  off  her  jewels,   of  which   she   has  a 

greater  quantity  than  Lady ,  and,  if  \  might  ju 

much  finer.  I  cannot  pretend  to  give  you  a  caialogue 
of  them  ;  they  are  of  all  sizes,  and  set  in  all  figures  : 
her  enemies  say  she  does  well  to  adorn  her  dusky 
brow  with  brilliants,  and  that  without  them  she  would 
he  but  little  taken  notice  of;  but  certain  it  is,  she  has 
inspired  more  serious  and  enthusiastic  passions  than 
her  sister,  whose  admirers  are  often  fops  more  in  love 
with  themselves  than  with  her.  A  leorned  clergyman 
some  time  ago  fell  deeply  in  love  with  her,  and  wrote 
a  fine  copy  of  verses  on  her  ;  and  what  was  worst, 
her  sister  could  not  go  into  company  without  hearing 
them. 

One  thing  they  quite  agree  in, — not  to  go  out  of 
their  way  or  alter  their  pace  for  any  body.     Once  or 

twice  indeed  I  have  heard  that  the  younger ,  but 

it  was  a  great  while  ago,  and  she  was  not  so  old  then, 
and  was  more  complaisant.  She  is  generally  waked 
with  a  fine  concert  of  music,  the  other  prefers  a  good 
solo. 

But  see,  the  younger  beauty  looks  pale  and  sick, — 
she  faints, — she  is  certainly  dying, — a  slight  blush  still 
upon  her  cheek, — it  fades,  fast,  fast. — She  is  gone, 
yet  a  sweet  smile  overspreads  her  countenance.  Will 
she  revive  ?  Shall  /  ever  see  her  again  ?  Who  can 
tell  me  ? 


109 


A  CHARACTER. 


Be  this  Philander's  praise,-— a  well-tuned  mind, 
Lofty  as  man,  and  more  than  woman  kind ; 
A  virgin  soul,  which,  spotless  yet  and  bright, 
Keeps  all  the  lustre  of  its  native  white. 
Virtue  in  him  from  no  cold  precept  flow'd, 
But  with  a  vigorous,  genuine  ardour  glow'd  ; 
So  pure  his  feelings  and  his  sense  so  strong, 
Seldom  his  head,  his  heart  was  never  wrong  ; 
Gentle  to  others,  to  himself  severe, 
And  mild  from  pity  only,  not  from  fear. 
Tender,  yet  firm,  and  prudent  without  art, 
The  sweetest  manners  and  the  gentlest  heart. 
If  in  so  fair  a  mind  there  reign'd  a  fault, 
'Twas  sensibility  too  finely  wrought, 
Too  quickly  roused,  too  exquisite  for  peace, 
Too  deeply  thoughtful  for  unmingled  ease. 
His  griefs  were  like  his  joys,  too  far  refined 
To  reach  the  dull  or  touch  the  selfish  mind  ; 
Yet  the  pure  sorrows  that  on  virtue  grow, 
Taste  of  the  sacred  spring  from  which  they  flow, 


10 


110 
P I C-N  I C. 


pRAy,  mamma,  what  is  the  meaning  of pic-nic?  I 
have  heard  lately  once  or  twice  of  a  pic-nic  supper, 
and  I  cannot  think  what  it  means  ;  I  looked  for  the 
word  in  Johnson's  Dictionary  and  could  not  find  it. 

I  should  wonder  if  you  had  ;  the  word  was  not  coin- 
ed in  Johnson's  time  ;  and  if  it  had  been,  I  believe  he 
would  have  disdained  to  insert  it  among  the  legitimate 
words  of  the  language.  I  cannot  tell  you  the  deriva- 
tion of  the  phrase  ;  I  believe  pic-nic  is  originally  a  cant 
word,  and  was  first  applied  to  a  supper  or  other  meal 
in  which  the  entertainment  is  not  provided  by  any  one 
person,  but  each  of  the  guests  furnishes  his  dish.  In 
a  pic-nic  supper  one  supplies  the  fowls,  another  the 
fish,  another  the  wine  and  fruit,  Sec.  ;  and  they  all  sit 
down  together  and  enjoy  it. 

A  very  sociable  way  of  making  an  entertainment. 

Yes,  and  I  would  have  you  observe,  that  the  prin- 
ciple of  it  may  be  extended  to  many  other  things.  No 
one  has  a  right  to  be  entertained  gratis  in  society ;  he 
must  expend,  if  he  wishes  to  enjoy.  Conversation, 
particularly,  is  a  pic-nic  feast,  where  every  one  is  to 
contribute  something,  according  to  his  genius  and 
ability.  Different  talents  and  acquirements  compose 
the  different  dishes  of  the  entertainment,  and  the 
greater  variety,  the  better  ;  but  every  one  must  bring 
something,  for  society  will  not  tolerate  any  one  long 
who  lives  wholly  at  the  expense  of  his  neighbours. 
Did  not  you  observe  how  agreeably  we  were  enter- 
tained at  Lady  Isabella's  party  last  night  ? 

Yes  :  one  of  the  young  ladies  sung,  and  another 
exhibited  her  drawings  ;  and  a  gentleman  told  some 
very  good  stories. 


PIC-NIC.  Ill 

True  :  another  lady  who  is  very  much  in  the  fash- 
ionable world  gave  us  a  great  deal  of  anecdote  ;  Dr. 
R.,  who  is  just  returned  from  the  continent,  gave  us  an 
interesting  account  of  the  state  of  Germany  ;  and  in 
another  part  of  the  room  a  cluster  was  gathered  round 
an  Edinburgh  student  and  a  young  Oxonian,  who  were 
holding  a  lively  debate  on  the  power  of  galvanism. 
But  Lady  Isabella  herself  was  the  charm  of  the  parly. 

I  think  she  talked  very  little  ;  and  1  do  not  recol- 
lect any  thing  she  said  which  was  particularly  striking. 

That  is  true.  But  it  was  owing  to  her  address  and 
attention  to  her  company  that  others  talked  and  were 
heard  by  turns  ;  that  the  modest  were  encouraged  and 
drawn  out,  and  those  inclined  to  be  noisy  restrained 
and  kept  in  order.  She  blended  and  harmonized  the 
talents  of  each  ;  brought  those  together  who  were  like- 
ly to  be  agreeable  to  each  other,  and  gave  us  no  more 
of  herself  than  was  necessary  to  set  oft  others.  I  no- 
ticed particularly  her  good  offices  to  an  accomplished 
but  very  bashful  lady  and  a  reserved  man  of  science, 
who  wished  much  to  be  known  to  one  another,  but 
who  would  never  have  beeu  so  without  her  introduc- 
tion. As  soon  as  she  had  fairly  engaged  them  in  an 
interesting  conversation,  she  left  them,  regardless  of 
her  own  entertainment,  and  seated  herself  by  poor 

Mr. ,  purely  because  he  was  sitting  in  a  corner 

and  no  one  attended  to  him.  You  know  that  in 
chemical  preparations  two  substances  often  require  a 
third,  to  enable  them  to  mix  and  unite  together.  Lady 
Isabella  possesses  this  amalgamating  power : — this  is 
what  she  brings  to  the  pic-nic.  I  should  add,  that 
two  or  three  times  I  observed  she  dexterously  changed 
topics,  and  suppressed  stories  which  were  likely  to 
bear  hard  on  the  profession  or  connexions  of  some  of 
the  company.  In  short,  the  party  which  was  so  agree- 
able under  her  harmonizing  influence,  would  have  had 


112  PIC-NIC. 

quite  a  different  aspect  without  her.  These  merit?, 
however,  might  easily  escape  a  young  observer.  But 
[  dare  say  you  did  not  fail  to  notice  Sir  Henry  B — 's 
lady,  who  was  declaiming  with  so  much  enthusiasm, 
in  the  midst  of  a  circle  of  gentlemen  which  she  had 
drawn  around  her,  upon  the  beau  ideal. 

No  indeed,  mamma  ;  I  never  heard  so  much  fire 
and  feeling  : — and  what  a  flow  of  elegant  language  ! 
I  do  not  wonder  her  eloquence  was  so  much  admired. 

She  has  a  great  deal  of  eloquence  and  taste  :  she 
has  travelled,  and  is  acquainted  with  the  best  works  of 
art.  I  am  not  sure,  however,  whether  the  gentlemen 
were  admiring  most  her  declamation  or  the  fine  turn 
of  her  hands  and  arms.  She  has  a  different  attitude 
for  every  sentiment.  Some  observations  which  she 
made  upon  the  beauty  of  statues  seemed  to  me  to  go 
to  the  verge  of  what  a  modest  female  will  allow  her- 
self to  say  upon  such  subjects, — but  she  has  travelled. 
She  was  sensible  that  she  could  not  fail  to  gain  by  the 
conversation  while  beauty  of  form  was  the  subject  of  it. 

Pray  what  did ,  the  great  poet,  bring  to  the 

pic-nic,  for  I  think  he  hardly  opened  his  mouth  r 

lie  brought  his  fame.  Many  would  be  gratified 
with  merely  seeing  him  who  had  entertained  them  in 
their  closets  ;  and  he  who  had  so  entertained  them 
"had  a  right  to  be  himself  entertained  in  that  way  which 
he  had  no  talent  for  joining  in.  Let  every  one,  I  re- 
peat, bring  to  the  entertainment  something  of  the  best 
he  possesses,  and  the  pic-nic  table  will  seldom  fail  to 
afford  a  plentiful  banquet. 


113 


LETTER 

FROM 

GRIMALKIN  TO   SELIMA. 


MY  DEAR  SELIMA, 

As  you  are  now  going  to  quit  the  fostering  cares  of 
a  mother,  to  enter,  young  as  you  are,  into  the  wide 
world,  and  conduct  yourself  by  your  own  prudence,  I 
cannot  forbear  giving  you  some  parting  advice  in  this 
important  aera  of  your  life. 

Your  extreme  youth,  and  permit  me  to  add,  the 
giddiness  incident  to  that  period,  make  me  particular- 
ly anxious  for  your  welfare.  In  the  first  place,  then 
let  me  beg  you  to  remember  that  life  is  not  to  be 
spent  in  running  after  your  own  tail.  Remember 
you  were  sent  into  the  world  to  catch  rats  and  mice. 
It  is  for  this  you  are  furnished  with  sharp  claws,  whis- 
kers to  improve  your  scent,  and  with  such  an  elastici- 
ty and  spring  in  your  limbs.  Never  lose  sight  of  this 
great  end  of  your  existence.  When  you  and  your  sis- 
ter are  jumping  over  my  back,  and  kicking  and  scratch- 
ing one  another's  noses,  you  are  indulging  the  propen- 
sities of  your  nature,  and  perfecting  yourselves  in  agility 
and  dexterity.  But  remember  that  these  frolics  are 
only  preparatory  to  the  grand  scene  of  action.  Life 
is  long,  hut  youth  is  short.  The  gaiety  of  the  kitten 
will  most  assuredly  go  off.  In  a  (e\v  months,  nay 
even  weeks,  those  spirits  and  that  playfulness,  which 
now  exhilarate  all  who  behold  you,  will  subside  ;  and 
L  beg  you  to  reflect  how  contemptible  you  will  be,  if 
vou  should  have  the  gravity  of  an  old  cat  without  that 
10* 


114  GRIMALKIN  TO  SELIMA. 

usefulness  which  alone  can  ensure  respect  and  pro- 
tection for  your  maturer  years. 

In  the  first  place,  my  dear  child,  obtain  a  command 
over  your  appetites,  and  take  care  that  no  tempting 
opportunity  ever  induces  you  to  make  free  with  the 
pantry  or  larder  of  your  mistress.  You  may  possibly 
slip  in  and  out  without  observation  ;  you  may  lap  a 
little  cream,  or  run  away  with  a  chop  without  its  being 
missed  :  but  depend  upon  it,  such  practices  sooner  or 
later  will  be  found  out ;  and  if  in  a  single  instance 
you  are  discovered,  every  thing  which  is  missing  will 
be  charged  upon  you.  If  Mrs.  Betty  or  Mrs.  Susan 
chooses  to  regale  herself  with  a  cold  breast  of  chicken 
which  was  set  by  for  supper, — you  will  have  clawed 
it ;  or  a  raspberry  cream, — you  will  have  lapped  it. 
Nor  is  this  all.  If  you  have  once  thrown  down  a  sin- 
gle cup  in  your  eagerness  to  get  out  of  the  storeroom, 
every  china  plate  and  dish  that  is  ever  broken  in  the 
house,  you  will  have  broken  it ;  and  though  your  back 
promises  to  be  pretty  broad,  it  will  not  be  broad 
enough  for  all  the  mischief  that  will  be  laid  upon  it. 
Honesty  you  will  find  is  the  best  policy. 

Remember  that  the  true  pleasures  of  life  consist  in 
the  exertion  of  our  own  powers.  If  you  were  to  feast 
every  day  upon  roasted  partridges  from  off  Dresden 
china,  and  dip  your  whiskers  in  syllabubs  and  creams, 
it  could  never  give  you  such  true  enjoyment  as  the 
commonest  food  procured  by  the  labour  of  your  own 
paws.  When  you  have  once  tasted  the  exquisite 
pleasure  of  catching  and  playing  with  a  mouse,  you 
will  despise  the  gratification  of  artificial  dainties. 

I  do  not  with  some  moralists  call  cleanliness  a  half 
virtue  only.  Remember  it  is  one  of  the  most  essen- 
tial to  your  sex  and  station  ;  and  if  ever  you  should 
fail  in  it,  I  sincerely  hope  Mrs.  Susan  will  bestow  upon 
vou  a  good  whipping. 


GRIMALKIN  TO  SELIMA.  115 

Pray  do  not  spit  at  strangers  who  do  you  the  honour 
to  take  notice  of  you.  It  is  very  uncivil  behaviour, 
and  1  have  often  wondered  that  kittens  of  any  breed- 
ing should  be  guilty  ol  it. 

Avoid  thrusting  your  nose  into  every  closet  and 
cupboard, — unless  indeed  you  smell  mice  ;  in  which 
case  it  is  very  becoming. 

Should  you  live,  as  I  hope  you  will,  to  see  the 
children  of  your  patroness,  you  must  prepare  your- 
self to  exercise  that  branch  of  fortitude  which  consists 
in  patient  endurance  :  for  you  must  expect  to  be 
lugged  about,  pinched  and  pulled  by  the  tail,  and 
played  a  thousand  tricks  with  ;  all  which  you  must 
bear  without  putting  out  a  claw  :  for  you  may  depend 
upon  it,  if  you  attempt  the  least  retaliation  you  will 
for  ever  lose  the  favour  of  your  mistress. 

Should  there  be  favourites  in  the  house,  such  as 
tame  birds,  dormice,  or  a  squirrel,  great  will  be  your 
temptations.  In  such  a  circumstance,  if  the  cage 
hangs  low  and  the  door  happens  to  be  left  open, — to 
govern  your  appetite  I  know  will  be  a  difficult  task. 
But  remember  that  nothing  is  impossible  to  the  gov- 
erning mind  ;  and  that  there  are  instances  upon  record 
of  cats  who,  in  the  exercise  of  self-government,  have 
overcome  the  strongest  propensities  of  their  nature. 

If  you  would  make  yourself  agreeable  to  your  mis- 
tress, you  must  observe  times  and  seasons.  You 
must  not  startle  her  by  jumping  upon  her  in  a  rude 
manner  :  and  above  all,  be  sure  to  sheathe  your  claws 
when  you  lay  your  paw  upon  her  lap. 

You  have  like  myself  been  brought  up  in  the  coun- 
try, and  I  fear  you  may  regret  the  amusements  it  af- 
fords ;  such  as  cathing  butterflies,  climbing  trees,  and 
watching  birds  from  the  windows,  which  1  have  done 
with  great  delight  for  a  whole  morning  together.  But 
these  pleasures  are  not  essential.     A  town  life  has 


110  GRIMALKIN  TO  SEL1MA. 

also  its  gratifications.  You  may  make  many  pleasant 
acquaintances  in  the  neighbouring  courts  and  alleys. 
A  concert  upon  the  tiles  in  a  fine  moonlight  summer's 
evening  may  at  once  gratify  your  ear  and  your  social 
feelings.  Rats  and  mice  are  to  be  met  with  every- 
where :  and  at  any  rate  you  have  reason  to  he  thank- 
ful that  so  creditable  a  situation  has  been  found  for 
you  ;  without  which  you  must  have  followed  the  fate 
of  your  poor  brothers,  and  with  a  stone  about  your 
neck  have  been  drowned  in  the  next  pond. 

It  is  only  when  you  have  kittens  yourself,  that  you 
will  be  able  to  appreciate  the  cares  of  a  mother.  How 
unruly  have  you  been  when  I  wanted  to  wash  your 
face  !  how  undutiful  in  galloping  about  the  room  in- 
stead of  coming  immediately  when  I  called  you  I  But 
nothing  can  subdue  the  affections  of  a  parent.  Being 
grave  and  thoughtful  in  my  nature,  and  having  the 
advantage  of  residing  in  a  literary  family,  I  have 
mused  deeply  on  the  subject  of  education  ;  1  have 
pored  by  moonlight  over  Locke,  and  Edgeworth,  and 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  and  the  laws  of  association  :  but  after 
much  cogitation  I  am  only  convinced  of  this,  that  kit- 
tens will  be  kittens,  and  old  cats  old  cats.  May  you, 
my  dear  child,  be  an  honour  to  all  your  relations  and 
to  the  whole  feline  race.  May  you  see  your  descend- 
ants of  the  fiftieth  generation.  And  when  you  depart 
this  life,  may  the  lamentations  of  your  kindred  exceed 
in  pathos  the  melody  of  an  Irish  howl. 

Signed  by  the  paw  of  your  affectionate  mother, 

Grimalkin. 


117 


PETITION  OF  A  SCHOOLBOY 

TO  HIS  FATHER. 


Most  honour'd  Sir,  I  must  confess, 
I  never  liked  a  letter  less 
Than  yours,  which  brought  this  new  receipt 
To  prove  that  poets  must  not  eat. 
Alas  !   poetic  sparks  require 
The  aid  of  culinary  fire  : 
Your  ancient  bards  I  always  find, 
Recited  best  when  they  had  dined  : 
Old  Homer,  and  your  brave  Greek  boys, 
With  whom  old  stories  make  such  noise, 
The  savoury  chine  loved  full  as  well 
As  striking  on  an  empty  shell ; 
And  mighty  idle  it  was  reckon'd 
(See  Pope's  translation,  book  the  second) 
To  enter  upon  any  matter 
Of  verse,  or  business,  praise,  or  satire, 
Till  the  dire  rage  of  hunger  ceased, 
And  empty  stomachs  were  appeased. 
Indeed,  Sir,  with  your  lean  philosophy, 
For  want  of  moisture  I  should  ossify  ; 
And  therefore  beg,  with  all  submission, 
To  recommend  a  composition, 
Which  Phoebus'  self  to  me  reveal'd 
Last  night,  while  sleep  my  eyelids  seal'd. 
First,  from  the  Naiad's  sacred  spring 
The  cleansing  wave  with  reverence  bring  ; 
Be  rites  of  due  lustration  paid, — 
Ill-omened  else,  you  '11  ne'er  succeed. 
Now  with  pure  hands  receive  the  flour 
Which  Ceres  from  her  horn  will  pour. 
The  fairest  herds  on  Mosswold  hill 
Your  pail  with  smoking  streams  shall  fill, 
Which,  tortured  in  the  whirling  churn, 
Shall  soon  to  waxen  butter  turn, — 
Butter,  more  sweet  than  morning  dew, 
Butter,  which  Homer  never  knew  ! 


118  PETITION  OF  A  SCHOOLBOY. 

My  friends,  you  have  not  done  your  task  yet 
Next  of  fresh  eggs  provide  a  basket ; 
Let  Betty  break  them  in  a  bowl 
Large  as  her  own  free-hearted  soul ; 
Then,  with  a  triple-tined  fork 
The  viscous  flood  incessant  work, 
Till  white  with  sparkling  foam  it  rise 
Like  a  vext  sea  beneath  her  eyes. 
The  monarch  of  the  watery  reign 
Thus  with  his  trident  smites  the  main, 
When  roused  from  Ocean's  deepest  bed 
The  billows  lift  their  frothy  head, 
And  the  wet  sailor  far  from  shore 
With  dashing  spray  is  cover'd  o'er. 

With  flying  sails  and  falling  oars 
Now  speed,  my  friends,  to  distant  shores, 
For  many  a  distant  realm  must  join, 
Ere  we  fulfil  the  vast  design. 
From  islands  of  the  Western  main 
Bring  the  sweet  juices  of  the  cane  ; 
In  bright  Hesperia's  groves  you  '11  find 
The  lovely  fruit  with  burnish'd  rind  ; 
Not  fairer  was  that  golden  bough 
Given  to  the  pious  Trojan's  vow, 
When  the  prophetic  Sibyl  led 
To  the  sad  nations  of  the  dead, 
Which  guided  through  the  direful  scene, 
And  soothed  the  stern  relentless  Queen. 
Strip  of  their  bark  the  spicy  trees 
Embosom'd  deep  in  Indian  seas. 
To  Venus  next  address  your  prayer. 
That  she  with  rosy  hand  would  bear 
The  luscious  fruit  to  crown  your  toils 
From  Paphos  and  Cythera's  isles. 

From  every  clime  the  tribute  pour'd, 
Now  heap'd  upon  the  spacious  board, 
Sure  sister  Sally  will  not  linger 
To  mix  them  with  her  snowy  finger. 

Fair  priestess  of  the  mystic  rite, 
Kept  close  from  man's  unhallowed  sight, 
Fear  not  my  verse  should  here  disclose 
What  words  the  sacred  charm  compose, 
When  with  uncover' d  arms  you  bend, 
The  heterogeneous  mass  to  blend  :  — 
Your  cakes  are  good,  with  joy  I  take  them, 
Nor  ask  the  secret  how  vou  make  them. 


PETITION  OF  A  SCHOOLBOY.  119 

Now,  the  rich  labour  to  complete, 
Spread  o'er  the  whole  an  icy  sheet, 
Thinner  than  e'er  the  pointed  thorn, 
The  glazing  of  a  winter's  morn  ; 
Too  weak  to  bear  the  beams  of  day, 
The  trickling  crystal  melts  away. 

'T  is  done, — consign  it  o'er  to  Bray, ' 
And  your  petitioner  shall  pray. 


*  The  Diss  and  Palgrave  carrier. 


120 


THE  RIVER  AND  THE  BROOK. 
A  FABLE. 


There  was  once  a  River  which  was  very  large, 
and  flowed  through  a  great  extent  of  country,  which 
it  rendered  fruitful  and  pleasant.  It  was  some  miles 
broad  at  its  mouth  ;  it  was  navigable  for  a  long  way 
up  the  stream,  and  ships  of  large  burthen  floated  on 
its  bosom.  The  River,  elated  with  its  own  conse- 
quence, despised  all  the  little  brooks  and  streams 
which  fell  into  it ;  and  swelling  above  its  banks  with 
pride,  said  to  them — "  Ye  petty  and  inconsiderable 
streams,  that  hasten  to  lose  your  names  and  your  being 
in  my  flood,  how  little  does  your  feeble  tribute  increase 
my  greatness  !  whether  you  withhold  or  bring  it,  I  feel 
no  increase  and  shall  perceive  no  diminution." 

"  Proud  stream  !  "  replied  a  little  Brook,  which 
lifted  up  its  head  and  murmurred  these  words, — 
"  dost  thou  not  know  that  all  thy  greatness  is  owing 
to  us  whom  thou  despisest .? " 

The  River,  mindless  of  this  reproof,  in  wanton 
pride  overflowed  its  banks.  But  the  next  summer 
proving  a  very  hot  one,  all  the  little  streams  we^e  dried 
up,  and  the  River  was  so  far  dried  that  men  and  cattle 
could  wade  over  it ;  and  a  strong  wind  bringing  a  heap 
of  dust  across  its  stream,  it  was  lost  in  the  sands  and 
never  heard  of  afterwards. 


121 

THE    LAMENT 
A  BALLAD. 


Come  here,  all  ye  virgins,  and  pity  my  case, 

By  a  lover  neglected  and  left  in  disgrace  •, 

By  a  lover  whose  charms  and  whose  falsehoods  are  such 

That  I  neither  can  praise  nor  lament  him  too  much. 

When  first  seen  o'er  the  hills  of  the  East  he  drew  nigh, 
How  beauteous  his  footsteps,  how  cheering  his  eye  ! 
The  lark  sprung  to  meet  him,  all  nature  was  gay, 
And  his  bright  golden  hair,  how  it  stream'd  on  the  day. 

As  nearer  and  nearer  each  day  then  he  press'd, 

How  quickly  he  thaw'd  all  the  ice  of  my  breast ; 

And  the  hours  of  his  absence  were  never  then  long, 

And  those  hours  too  were  soothed  with  the  nightingale's  song. 

O  then  if  I  sicken'd,  I  sicken'd  of  love, 

For  relief  from  his  ardours  I  sought  the  cool  grove  ; 

But  where  did  the  grove,  rock,  or  desert  appear, 

Which  his  eye  did  not  pierce,  which  his  smile  did  not  cheer  ! 

O  the  joys  that  are  past !  by  my  lover  caress'd, 

When  my  lap  teem'd  with  wealth,  the  rose  bloom'd  on  my  breast 

When  the  poet  delighted  my  charms  to  rehearse, 

And  a  wreath  from  my  hair  was  the  meed  of  his  verse. 

But  those  moments  so  precious  are  fled  with  swift  pace,— 

For  a  month  at  a  time  I  now  scarce  see  his  face  ; 

So  languid  his  smile  is,  so  distant  his  air, 

My  poor  heart  is  quite  sunk  in  the  depths  of  despair. 

My  tresses  are  scattered,  dishevell'd,  and  torn, 
Through  the  chill  night  I  sigh,  and  I  weep  every  morn ; 
My  charms  were  call'd  forth  by  a  beam  from  his  eye, 
In  his  absence  they  wither,  they  languish,  and  die. 

Now  my  strength  and  my  youth  and  my  beauty  are  gone, 

My  times  are  accomplish' d,  my  fate  hastens  on  ; 

His  eye  is  averted,  he  sees  not  my  death, — 

Now  my  last  hour  approaches,  I  scarce  draw  my  breath. 

11 


122  THE  LAMENT. 

To  a  new  fav'rite  then  he  '11  his  passion  transfer, 
And  his  gifts  and  his  courtship  will  all  be  for  her  ; 
Like  me  with  his  smiles  she  will  kindle  and  glow, 
And  his  kiss  from  her  bosom  will  melt  off  the  snow. 

But  like  me  deserted,  she  too  will  soon  prove 
How  transient  his  fervours,  how  fickle  his  love ; 
And  like  mine,  her  short  pageant  must  quickly  be  o'er, 
For  the  circle  she  treads  I  have  trodden  before. 

The  Old  Yeak, 

Half -past  Eleven  at  Night,  Dec.  31. 


123 


ALLEGORY  ON  SLEEP. 


MY  DEAR  MISS  D  *"***, 


The  affection  I  bear  you,  and  the  sincere  regard 
I  have  for  your  welfare,  will,  I  hope,  excuse  the  lib- 
erty I  am  going  to  take  in  remonstrating  against  the 
indulgence  of  a  too  partial  affection  which  I  see  with 
sorrow  is  growing  upon  you  every  day. 

You  start  at  the  imputation  :  but  hear  me  with  pa- 
tience ;  and  if  your  own  heart,  your  own  reason,  does 
not  bear  witness  to  what  I  say,  then  blame  my  sus- 
picions and  my  freedom. 

But  need  I  say  much  to  convince  you  of  the  power 
this  favoured  lover,  whose  name  I  will  not  mention, 
has  over  you,  when  at  this  very  moment  he  absorbs 
all  your  faculties,  and  engrosses  every  power  of  your 
mind  to  such  a  degree  as  leaves  it  doubtful  whether 
this  friendly  admonition  will  reach  your  ear,  lost  as 
you  are  in  the  soft  enchantment  ?  Is  it  not  evident 
that  in  his  presence  you  are  dead  to  every  thing 
around  you  ?  The  voice  of  your  nearest  friends,  your 
most  sprightly  and  once-loved  amusements,  cannot 
draw  your  attention  ;  you  breathe,  you  exist,  only  for 
him.  And  when  at  length  he  has  left  you,  do  not  I 
behold  you  languid,  pale,  bearing  in  your  eyes  and 
your  whole  carriage  the  marks  of  his  power  over  you  ? 
When  we  parted  last  night,  did  not  I  see  you  impa- 
tient to  sink  into  his  arms  ?  Have  you  never  been 
caught  reclined  on  his  bosom,  on  a  soft  carpet  of 
flowers,  on  the  banks  of  a  purling  stream,  where  the 
murmuring  of  the  waters,  the  whispering  of  the  trees, 
the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  place,  and  the  luxuri- 


124  ALLEGORY  ON  SLEEP. 

ous  softness  of  every  tiling  around  you,  favoured  his 
approach  and  disposed  you  to  listen  to  his  addresses  ? 
Nay,  in  that  sacred  temple  which  ought  he  dedicated 
to  higher  affections,  has  he  never  stolen  insensibly  on 
your  mind,  and  sealed  your  ears  against  the  voice  of 
the  preacher,  though  never  so  persuasive  ?  Has  not 
his  influence  over  you  greatly  increased  within  these 
few  weeks  ?  Does  he  not  every  day  demand,  do  you 
not  every  day  sacrifice  to  him,  a  larger  portion  of  your 
time  ? 

Not  content  with  devoting  to  him  those  hours 
"  When  business,  noise,  and  day  are  fled," 
does  he  not  encroach  upon  the  morning  watches, 
break  in  upon  your  studies,  and  detain  your  mind 
from  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  and  the  pursuit  of 
pleasure, — of  all  pleasure  but  the  enervating  indul- 
gence of  your  passion  ? 

Diana,  who  still  wishes  to  number  you  in  her  train, 
invites  you  to  join  in  her  lively  sports  5  for  you  Aurora 
bathes  the  new-born  rose  in  dew,  and  streaks  the 
clouds  with  gold  and  crimson ;  and  Youth  and  Health 
offer  a  thousand  innocent  pleasures  to  your  accept- 
ance. 

And,  let  me  ask  you,  what  can  you  find  in  the  com- 
pany of  him  with  whom  you  are  thus  enamoured,  to 
make  you  amends  for  all  that  you  give  up  for  his  sake  ? 
Does  he  entertain  you  with  any  thing  but  the  most 
incoherent  rhapsodies,  the  most  romantic  and  visionary 
tales  ?  To  believe  the  strange,  improbable,  and  con- 
tradictory things  he  tells  you,  requires  a  credulity  be- 
yond that  of  an  infant.  If  he  has  ever  spoken  truth, 
it  is  mixed  with  so  much  falsehood  and  obscurity,  that 
it  is  esteemed  the  certain  sign  of  a  weak  mind  to  be 
much  affected  with  what  he  says. 

As  I  wish  to  draw  a  true  portrait,  I  will  by  no 
means  disguise  his  good  qualities ;  and  shall  therefore 


ALLEGORY  ON  SLEEP.  125 

allow  that  he  is  a  friend  to  the  unhappy  and  the  friend- 
less, that  his  breast  is  the  only  pillow  for  misfortune 
to  repose  on,  and  that  his  approaches  are  so  gentle 
and  insinuating  as  in  some  moments  to  be  almost  ir- 
resistible. If  he  is  at  all  disposed  to  partiality,  it  is 
in  favour  of  the  poor  and  mean,  with  whom  he  is 
generally  thought  to  associate  more  readily  than  with 
the  rich.  Yet  he  dispenses  favours  to  all :  and  those 
who  are  most  disposed  to  rebel  against  his  power  and 
treat  him  with  contempt,  could  never  render  them- 
selves quite  independent  of  him. 

He  is  of  a  very  ancient  family,  and  came  in  long 
before  the  Conquest.  He  has  a  half-brother,  some- 
what younger  than  himself,  who  has  made  his  name 
very  famous  in  the  world  :  he  is  a  tall  meagre  figure, 
with  a  ghastly  air  and  a  most  forbidding  countenance  ; 
he  delights  in  slaughter,  and  has  destroyed  more  men 
than  Caesar  or  Alexander. 

He  who  is  the  subject  of  my  letter  is  fond  of  peace, 
sleek  and  corpulent,  with  a  mild  heavy  eye  and  a 
physiognomy  perfectly  placid ;  yet  with  all  this  oppo- 
sition of  feature  and  character,  there  is  such  a  resem- 
blance between  them  (as  often  happens  in  family 
likenesses) ,  that  in  some  lights  and  attitudes  you  can 
scarce  distinguish  the  one  from  the  other. 

To  finish  the  description  of  your  lover, — he  is 
generally  crowned  with  flowers,  but  of  the  most  lan- 
guid kind,  such  as  poppies  and  cowslips  ;  and  he  is 
attended  by  a  number  of  servants,  thin  and  light-footed, 
to  whom  he  does  not  give  the  same  livery  ;  for  some 
are  dressed  in  the  gayest,  others  in  the  most  gloomy 
habits  imaginable,  but  all  fantastic. 

He  is  subject  to  many  strange  antipathies,  and  as 

strange  likings.     The  warbling  of  the  lark,  to  others 

so  agreeable,  is  to  him  the  harshest  discord,  and  Peter 

could  not  start  more  at  the  crowing  of  a  cock.     The 

11* 


126  ALLEGORY  ON  SLEEP. 

slightest  accident,  the  cry  of  an  infant,  a  mouse  behind 
the  wainscot,  will  oftentimes  totally  disconcert  and 
put  him  to  flight,  and  at  other  times  he  will  not  regard 
the  loudest  thunder.  His  favourite  animal  is  the  dor- 
mouse, and  his  music  the  dropping  of  water,  the  low 
tinkling  of  a  distant  bell,  the  humming  of  bees,  and 
the  hollow  sound  of  the  wind  rustling  through  the 
trees. 

But  I  have  now  said  enough  to  let  you  into  the 
true  character  of  this  powerful  enchanter.  You  will 
answer,  I  know,  to  all  this,  that  he  begins  by  enslav- 
ing every  faculty  that  might  resist  him,  and  that  his 
power  must  be  already  broken  before  Reason  can 
exert  herself.  You  will  perhaps  likewise  tell  me  (and 
I  must  acknowledge  the  justice  of  the  retort),  that 
I  myself,  though  my  situation  affords  a  thousand  rea- 
sons to  resist  him  which  do  not  take  place  with  you, 
have  been  but  too  sensible  of  his  attractions. 

With  blushes  I  confess  the  charge.  At  this  mo- 
ment, however,  the  charm  is  broken,  and  Reason  has 
her  full  empire  over  me.  Let  me  exhort  you  there- 
fore....But  why  exhort  you  to  what  is  already  done  ? 
for  if  this  letter  has  made  its  way  to  your  ear,  if  your 
eye  is  now  perusing  its  contents,  the  spell  is  dissolved, 
and  you  are  no  longer  sunk  in  the  embraces  of  Sleep. 


127 


OCCASIONED  BY  HIS  POEM  ON  THE  SUN. 


While,  Florio,  thy  young  venturous  Muse 

Pursues  her  shining  way, 
And  like  the  generous  eagle  soars 

To  meet  the  blaze  of  day  ; 

With  the  fair  dawn  of  genius  charmed, 

A  nobler  theme  I  find  ; 
I  hail  the  intellectual  morn, 

I  sing  the  bloom  of  mind. 

The  sun  which  bids  the  ruby  glow, 

And  wakes  the  purple  rose, 
A  richer  g*m  did  ne'er  refine, 

A  sweeter  bud  disclose. 

That  bud  to  golden  fruit  shall  swell, 

That  gem  be  polished  bright, 
The  kindling  dawn  of  science  spread 

To  clear  meridian  light. 

When  gems  grow  pale,  and  roses  droop, 

And  sickening  suns  expire, — 
The  mind,  a  ray  from  heaven,  shall  live 

And  mix  with  heavenly  fire. 


128 


A  HYMN. 


Lift  up  thyself,  O  mourning  soul  !  lift  up  thyself, 
raise  thine  eyes  that  are  wet  with  tears ! 

Why  are  thine  eyes  wet  with  tears  ?  why  are  they 
bent  continually  upon  the  earth  ?  and  why  dost  thou 
go  mourning  as  one  forsaken  of  thy  God  ? 

O  thou  that  toilest  ever  and  restest  not ;  thou  that 
wishest  ever  and  art  not  satisfied ;  thou  that  carest 
ever  and  art  not  'stablished  ; 

Why  dost  thou  toil  and  wish  ?  why  is  thine  heart 
withered  with  care,  and  thine  eyes  sunk  with  watching  ? 

Rest  quietly  on  thy  couch,  steep  thine  eyelids  in 
sleep,  wrap  thyself  in  sleep  as  in  a  garment, — for  he 
careth  for  thee  : 

He  is  with  thee,  he  is  about  thee,  he  compasseth 
thee,  he  compasseth  thee  on  every  side. 

The  voice  of  thy  Shepherd  among  the  rocks  !  he 
calleth  thee,  he  beareth  thee  tenderly  in  his  arms ;  he 
suffereth  thee  not  to  stray. 

Thy  soul  is  precious  in  his  sight,  O  child  of  many 
hopes ! 

For  he  careth  for  thee  in  the  tilings  which  perish, 
and  he  hath  provided  yet  better  things  tiran  those. 

Raise  thyself,  O  beloved  soul !  turn  thine  eyes  from 
care,  and  sin,  and  pain ;  turn  them  to  the  brightness 
of  the  heavens,  and  contemplate  thine  inheritance  ;  for 
thy  birthright  is  in  the  skies,  and  thine  inheritance 
amongst  the  stars  of  light. 

The  herds  of  the  pasture  sicken  and  die,  they  lie 
down  among  the  clods  of  the  valley,  the  foot  passedi 
over  them  ;  they  are  no  more.  But  it  is  not  so  with 
thee. 


A  HYMN.  129 

For  the  Almighty  is  the  father  of  thy  spirit,  and  he 
hath  given  thee  a  portion  of  his  own  immortality. 

Look  around  thee  and  behold  the  earth,  for  it  is 
the  gift  of  thy  Father  to  thee  and  to  thy  sons,  that  they 
should  possess  it. 

Out  of  the  ground  cometh  forth  food  ;  the  hills  are 
covered  with  fresh  shade ;  and  the  animals,  thy  sub- 
jects, sport  among  the  trees. 

Delight  thyself  in  them,  for  they  are  good  ;  and  all 
that  thou  seest  is  thine. 

But  nothing  that  thou  seest  is  like  unto  thyself; 
thou  art  not  of  them,  nor  shalt  thou  return  to  them. 

Thou  hast  a  mighty  void  which  they  cannot  fill ; 
thou  hast  an  immortal  hunger  which  they  cannot  satis- 
fy :  tiiey  cannot  nourish,  they  cannot  support,  they  are 
not  worthy  that  they  should  occupy  thee. 

As  the  fire  which  while  it  resteth  on  the  earth  yet 
sendeth  forth  sparks  continually  towards  heaven ;  so 
do  thou  from  amidst  the  world  send  up  fervent  thoughts 
to  God. 

As  die  lark,  though  her  nest  is  on  the  low  ground, 
as  soon  as  she  becometh  fledged,  poiseth  her  wings, 
and  finding  them  strong  to  bear  her  through  the  light 
air,  springeth  up  aloft,  singing  as  she  soars  ; 

So  let  thy  desires  mount  swiftly  upwards,  and  thou 
shalt  see  the  world  beneath  thy  feet. 

And  be  not  overwhelmed  with  many  thoughts. 
Heaven  is  thine,  and  God  is  thine  :  thou  shalt  be 
blessed  with  everlasting  salvation  and  peace  upon  thy 
head  for  evermore. 


130 


ON  FRIENDSHIP. 


Friendship  is  that  warm,  tender,  lively  attach- 
ment, which  takes  place  between  persons  in  whom  a 
similarity  of  tastes  and  manners,  joined  to  frequent  in- 
tercourse, has  produced  an  habitual  fondness  for  each 
other.  It  is  not  among  our  duties,  for  it  does  not  flow 
from  any  of  the  necessary  relations  of  society  ;  but  it 
has  its  duties  when  voluntarily  entered  into.  In  its 
highest  perfection  it  can  only,  I  believe,  subsist  between 
two  ;  for  that  unlimited  confidence  and  perfect  con- 
formity of  inclinations  which  it  requires,  cannot  well 
be  found  in  a  larger  number  :  besides,  one  such  friend- 
ship fills  the  heart,  and  leaves  no  want  or  desire  after 
another. 

Friendship,  where  it  is  quite  sincere  and  affection- 
ate, free  from  affectation  or  interested  views,  is  one 
of  the  greatest  blessings  of  life.  It  doubles  our  joys, 
and  it  lessens  our  sorrows,  when  we  are  able  to  pour 
both  into  the  bosom  of  one  who  takes  the  tenderest 
part  in  all  our  interests,  who  is  to  us  as  another  self. 
We  love  to  communicate  all  our  feelings ;  and  it  is  in 
the  highest  degree  grateful  where  we  can  do  it  to  one 
who  will  enter  into  them  all ;  who  takes  an  interest  in 
every  thing  that  befalls  us  ;  before  whom  we  can  free- 
ly indulge  even  our  little  weaknesses  and  foibles,  and 
show  our  minds  as  it  were  undrest ;  who  will  take  part 
in  all  our  schemes,  advise  us  in  any  emergency  ;  who 
rejoices  in  our  company,  and  who,  we  are  sure,  thinks 
01  us  in  our  absence. 

With  regard  to  the  choice  of  friends,  there  is  little 
to  say  ;  for  a  friend  was  never  chosen.     A  secret  sym- 


ON  FRIENDSHIP.  131 

pathy,  the  attraction  of  a  thousand  nameless  qualities ; 
a  charm  in  the  expression  of  the  countenance,  even  in 
the  voice,  or  the  manner,  a  similarity  of  circumstan- 
ces,— these  are  the  things  that  begin  attachment, 
which  is  fostered  by  being  in  a  situation  which  gives 
occasion  for  frequent  intercourse  ;  and  this  depends 
upon  chance.  Reason  and  prudence  have,  however, 
much  to  do  in  restraining  our  choice  of  improper  or 
dangerous  friends.  They  are  improper  if  our  line  of 
life  and  pursuits  are  so  totally  different  as  to  make  it 
improbable  we  shall  long  keep  up  an  intimacy,  at  least 
without  sacrificing  to  it  connexions  of  duty  ;  they  are 
dangerous  if  they  are  in  any  respect  vicious. 

It  has  been  made  a  question  whether  friendship  can 
subsist  amongst  the  vicious.  If  by  vicious  be  meant 
those  who  are  void  of  the  social,  generous,  and  affec- 
tionate feelings,  it  is  most  certain  it  cannot ;  because 
diese  make  the  very  essence  of  it.  But  it  is  very  pos- 
sible for  persons  to  possess  fine  feelings,  without  that 
steady  principle  which  alone  constitutes  virtue ;  and  it 
does  not  appear  why  such  may  not  feel  a  real  friend- 
ship. It  will  not  indeed  be  so  likely  to  be  lasting,  and 
is  often  succeeded  by  bitter  enmities. 

The  duties  of  friendship  are,  first,  sincere  and  dis- 
interested affection.  This  seems  self-evident :  and 
yet  there  are  many  who  pretend  to  love  their  friends, 
when  at  the  same  time  they  only  take  delight  in  them, 
as  we  delight  in  a  fine  voice  or  a  good  picture.  If 
you  love  your  friend,  you  will  love  him  when  his  pow- 
ers of  pleasing  and  entertaining  you  have  given  way  to 
malady  or  depression  of  spirits  ;  you  will  study  his  in- 
terest and  satisfaction,  you  will  be  ready  to  resign  his 
company,  to  promote  his  advantageous  setdement  at  a 
distant  residence,  to  favour  his  connexion  with  other 
friends ; — these  are  the  tests  of  true  affection  :  with- 
out such  a  disposition,  you  may  enjoy  your  friend,  but 
you  do  not  love  him. 


132  ON   FRIENDSHIP. 

Next,  friendship  requires  pure  sincerity  and  die 
most  unreserved  confidence.  Sincerity  every  man 
has  a  right  to  expect  from  us,  but  every  man  has  not 
a  right  to  our  confidence  :  this  is  die  sacred  and  pe- 
culiar privilege  of  friendship  ;  and  so  essential  is  it  to 
the  very  idea  of  this  connexion,  that  even  to  serve  a 
friend  without  giving  him  our  confidence,  is  but  going 
half  way  ; — it  may  command  gratitude,  but  will  not 
produce  love.  Above  all  things,  the  general  tenour  of 
our  thoughts  and  feelings  must  be  shown  to  our  friends 
exactly  as  they  are  ;  without  any  of  those  glosses, 
colourings,  and  disguises  which  we  do,  and  partly  must, 
put  on  in  our  commerce  with  the  world. 

Another  duty  resulting  from  this  confidence  is  in- 
violable secrecy  in  what  has  been  entrusted  to  us. 
To  every  one  indeed  we  owe  secrecy  in  what  we  are 
formally  entrusted  with ;  but  with  regard  to  a  friend, 
this  extends  to  the  concealing  every  thing  which  in 
the  fulness  of  his  heart  and  in  the  freedom  of  un- 
guarded conversation  he  has  let  drop,  if  you  have  the 
least  idea  it  may  in  any  manner  injure  or  offend  him. 
In  short,  you  are  to  consider  yourself  as  always,  to 
him,  under  an  implied  promise  of  secrecy  ;  and  should 
even  the  friendship  dissolve,  it  would  be  in  the  highest 
degree  ungenerous  to  consider  this  obligation  as  dis- 
solved with  it. 

In  the  next  place,  a  friend  has  a  right  to  our  best 
advice  on  every  emergency  ;  and  this,  even  though  we 
run  the  risk  of  offending  him  by  our  frankness. 
Friends  should  consider  themselves  as  the  sacred 
guardians  of  each  other's  virtue  ;  and  the  noblest  tes- 
timony they  can  give  of  their  affection  is  the  correction 
of  the  faults  of  those  they  love.  But  this  generous 
solicitude  must  be  distinguished  from  a  teazing,  cap- 
tious, or  too  officious  notice  of  all  the  little  defects  and 
frailties  which  their  close  intercourse  with  each  other 


ON  FRIENDSHIP.  133 

brings  continually  into  view :  these  must  be  overlook- 
ed or  borne  with  ;  for  as  we  are  not  perfect  ourselves, 
we  have  no  right  to  expect  our  friends  should  be  so. 

Friends  are  most  easily  acquired  in  youth,  but  they 
are  likewise  most  easily  lost :  the  petulance  and  im- 
petuosity of  that  age,  the  eager  competitions  and  rival- 
ships  of  an  active  life,  and  more  especially  the  various 
changes  in  rank  and  fortune,  connexions,  party,  opin- 
ions, or  local  situation,  burst  asunder  or  silently  untwist 
the  far  greater  part  of  those  friendships  which,  in  the 
warmth  of  youthful  attachment,  we  had  fondly  promis- 
ed ourselves  should  be  indissoluble. 

Happy  is  he  to  whom,  in  the  maturer  season  of 
life,  there  remains  one  tried  and  constant  friend  :  their 
affection,  mellowed  by  the  hand  of  time,  endeared  by 
the  recollection  of  enjoyments,  toils,  and  even  suffer- 
ings shared  together,  becomes  the  balm,  the  consola- 
tion, and  the  treasure  of  life.  Such  a  friendship  is 
inestimable,  and  should  be  preserved  with  the  utmost 
care  ;  for  it  is  utterly  impossible  for  any  art  ever  to 
transfer,  to  another  the  effect  of  all  those  accumulated 
associations  which  endear  to  us  the  friend  of  our  early 
years. 

These  considerations  should  likewise  induce  us  to 
show  a  tender  indulgence  to  our  friends,  even  for  those 
faults  which  most  sensibly  wound  the  feeling  heart, — 
a  growing  coldness  and  indifference.  These  may  be 
brought  on  by  many  circumstances,  which  do  not  im- 
ply a  bad  heart ;  and  provided  we  do  not  by  bitter 
complaints  and  an  open  rupture  preclude  the  possibili- 
ty of  a  return,  in  a  more  favourable  conjuncture  the 
friendships  of  our  youth  may  knit  again,  and  be  culti- 
vated with  more  genuine  tenderness  than  ever. 

I  must  here  take  occasion  to  observe,  that  there  is 
nodiing  young  people  ought  to  guard  against  with  more 
care  than  a  parade  of  feeling,  and  a  profusion  of  ex- 
12 


134  ON  FRIENDSHIP. 

aggerated  protestations.  These  may  sometimes  pro- 
ceed from  the  amiable  warmth  of  a  youthful  heart ; 
but  they  much  oftener  flow  from  the  affectation  of 
sentiment,  which  is  both  contemptible  and  morally 
wrong. 

All  that  has  been  said  of  the  duties  or  of  the  pleas- 
ures of  friendship  in  its  most  exalted  sense,  is  appli- 
cable in  a  proportionate  degree  to  every  connexion  in 
which  there  exists  any  portion  of  this  generous  affec- 
tion :  so  far  as  it  does  exist  in  the  various  relations  of 
life,  so  far  it  renders  them  interesting  and  valuable  ; 
and  were  the  capacity  for  it  taken  away  from  the  hu- 
man heart,  it  would  find  a  dreary  void,  and  starve 
amidst  all  the  means  of  enjoyment  the  world  could 
pour  out  before  it. 


135 
CONFIDENCE  AND  MODESTY 

A  FABLE. 


When  the  Gods,  knowing  it  to  be  for  the  benefit  of 
mortals  that  the  few  should  lead  and  that  the  many 
should  follow,  sent  down  into  this  lower  world  Igno- 
rance and  Wisdom,  they  decreed  to  each  of  them  an 
attendant  and  guide,  to  conduct  their  steps  and  facilitate 
their  introduction.  To  Wisdom  they  gave  Confi- 
dence, and  Ignorance  they  placed  under  the  guidance 
of  Modesty.  Thus  paired,  the  parties  travelled  about 
the  world  for  some  time  with  mutual  satisfaction. 

Wisdom,  whose  eye  was  clear  and  piercing,  and 
commanded  a  long  reach  of  country,  followed  her 
conductor  with  pleasure  and  alacrity.  She  saw  the 
windings  of  the  road  at  a  great  distance  ;  her  foot  was 
firm,  her  ardour  was  unbroken,  and  she  ascended  the 
hill  or  traversed  the  plain  with  speed  and  safety. 

Ignorance,  on  the  other  hand,  was  short-sighted  and 
timid.  When  she  came  to  a  spot  where  the  road 
branched  out  in  different  directions,  or  was  obliged  to 
pick  her  way  through  the  obscurity  of  the  tangled 
thicket,  she  was  frequently  at  a  loss,  and  wTas  accus- 
tomed to  stop  till  some  one  appeared,  to  give  her  the 
necessary  information,  which  the  interesting  counte- 
nance of  her  companion  seldom  failed  to  procure  her. 

Wisdom  in  the  mean  time,  led  by  a  natural  instinct, 
advanced  toward  the  temple  of  Science  and  Eternal 
Truth.  For  some  time  the  way  lay  plain  before  her, 
and  she  followed  her  guide  with  unhesitating  steps  : 
but  she  had  not  proceeded  far  before  the  paths  grew 
intricate  and  entangled  :  the  meeting  branches  of  the 


136  CONFIDENCE  AND  MODESTY. 

trees  spread  darkness  over  her  head,  and  steep  moun- 
tains barred  her  way,  whose  summits,  lost  in  clouds, 
ascended  beyond  the  reach  of  mortal  vision.  At 
every  new  turn  of  the  road  her  guide  urged  her  to 
proceed ;  but  after  advancing  a  little  way,  she  was 
often  obliged  to  measure  back  her  steps,  and  often 
found  herself  involved  in  the  mazes  of  a  labyrinth 
which,  after  exercising  her  patience  and  her  strength, 
ended  but  where  it  began. 

In  the  mean  time  Ignorance,  who  was  naturally 
impatient,  could  but  ill  bear  the  continual  doubts  and 
hesitation  of  her  companion.  She  hated  deliberation, 
and  could  not  submit  to  delay.  At  length  it  so  hap- 
pened that  she  found  herself  on  a  spot  where  three 
ways  met,  and  no  indication  was  to  be  found  which 
might  direct  her  to  the  right  road.  Modesty  advised 
her  to  wait ;  and  she  had  waited  till  her  patience  was 
exhausted. — At  that  moment  Confidence,  who  was  in 
disgrace  with  Wisdom  for  some  false  steps  he  had  led 
her  into,  and  who  had  just  been  discarded  from  her 
presence,  came  up,  and  offered  himself  to  be  her 
guide.  He  was  accepted.  Under  his  auspices  Igno- 
rance, naturally  swift  of  foot,  and  who  could  at  any 
time  have  outrun  Wisdom,  boldly  pressed  forward, 
pleased  and  satified  with  her  new  companion.  He 
knocked  at  every  door,  visited  castle  and  convent,  and 
introduced  his  charge  to  many  a  society  whence  Wis- 
dom found  herself  excluded. 

Modesty,  in  the  mean  time,  finding  she  could  be  of 
no  further  use  to  her  charge,  offered  her  services  to 
Wisdom.  'Fliey  were  mutually  pleased  with  each 
other,  and  soon  agreed  never  to  separate.  And  ever 
since  that  time  Ignorance  has  been  led  by  Confidence, 
and  Modesty  has  been  found  in  the  society  of  Wis- 
dom. 


137 


THE  DEATH-BED. 


[A  little  Parlour  with  deal  Floor ;  a  Bed  with  a  clean  Quilt 
in  which  lies  the  Grandmother.] 


I  had  more  pain  when  I  brought  you  into  the 
world  than  now. 

Shall  I  lay  on  more  clothes  ? 

Yes,  on  my  feet. 

Are  they  warmer  ? 

No.  When  your  father  died  was  the  greatest  grief 
I  ever  knew.  Well !  we  began  life  together,  and 
lived  hardly  enough.  I  have  often  thought  since,  I 
could  not  do  it  again.  But  we  loved  one  another. 
I  am  sure  I  could  never  have  recovered  his  loss  but 
for  the  care  necessary  to  take  for  you  :  and  one  friend 
helped,  and  another  friend,  so  I  struggled  through. 
Yet,  my  child,  I  would  not  live  it  again  ;  the  tired 
traveller  would  not  measure  back  his  steps. 

If  I  were  to  live,  I  should  grow  worse  and  worse, 
deafer  and  blind.  I  have  read  of  a  country  where 
they  keep  their  ancestors'  mummies, — living  mum- 
mies would  be  worse. 

Your  father's  Bible, — your  ages  are  all  down  in  it, — 
never  sell  it. 

I  have  loved  you  all  equally.... And  yet  I  am  not 
sure. ...Poor  Tommy  was  so  long  sick  and  would  come 
to  nobody  but  me.... 

^  Jenny,  you  may  marry  the  shoemaker. — And  now, 
if  I  could  but  see  my  poor  naughty  Emmy  ! . . 

12* 


133  THE  DEATH-BED. 

You  will  save  nothing  by  me  but  water  gruel  and 
an  egg  or  two, — care  indeed,  but  that  produces  love. 

You  will  not  quarrel  for  my  inheritance.  The 
Squire, — it  has  gone  to  my  heart  when  he  has  said, 
My  old  mother  keeps  me  out  of  my  estate. — Let  my 
vine  be  buried  with  me. 


139 
A    DIALOGUE   OF   THE   DEAD, 

BETWEEN 

HELEN,  AND  MADAME  MAINTENON. 


Helen. — Whence  comes  it,  my  dear  Madame 
Maintenon,  that  beauty,  which  in  the  age  I  lived  in 
produced  such  extraordinary  effects,  has  now  lost  al- 
most all  its  power  ? 

Maint. — I  should  first  wish  to  be  convinced  of  the 
fact,  before  I  offer  to  give  you  a  reason  for  it. 

Helen. — That  will  be  very  easy  ;  for  there  is  no 
occasion  to  go  any  further  than  our  own  histories  and 
experience  to  prove  what  I  advance.  You  were 
beautiful,  accomplished,  and  fortunate ;  endowed  with 
every  talent  and  every  grace  to  bend  the  heart  of  man 
and  mould  it  to  your  wish  :  and  your  schemes  were 
successful ;  for  you  raised  yourself  from  obscurity  and 
dependance  to  be  the  wife  of  a  great  monarch. — But 
what  is  this  to  the  influence  my  beauty  had  over  sove- 
reigns and  nations !  I  occasioned  a  long  ten  years' 
war  between  the  most  celebrated  heroes  of  antiquity  ; 
contending  kingdoms  disputed  the  honor  of  placing 
me  on  their  respective  thrones  ;  my  story  is  recorded 
by  the  father  of  verse  ;  and  my  charms  make  a  figure 
even  in  the  annals  of  mankind.  You  were,  it  is  true, 
the  wife  of  Louis  XIV.  and  respected  in  his  court ; 
but  you  occasioned  no  wars ;  you  are  not  spoken  of 
in  the  history  of  France,  though  you  furnish  materials 
for  the  memoirs  of  a  court.  Are  the  love  and  ad- 
miration that  were  paid  you  merely  as  an  amiable 
woman  to  be  compared  with  die  enthusiasm  I  inspired, 


140  A  DIALOGUE  OP  THE  DEAD. 

and  the  boundless  empire  I  obtained  over  all  that  was 
celebrated,  great,  or  powerful  in  the  age  I  lived  in  ? 

Maint. — All  this,  my  dear  Helen,  has  a  splendid 
appearance,  and  sounds  well  in  a  heroic  poem  ;  but 
you  greatly  deceive  yourself  if  you  impute  it  all  to 
your  personal  merit.  Do  you  imagine  that  half  the 
chiefs  concerned  in  the  war  of  Troy  were  at  all  in- 
fluenced by  your  beauty,  or  troubled  their  heads  what 
became  of  you  provided  they  came  off  with  honour  ? 
Believe  me,  love  had  very  little  to  do  in  the  affair  : 
Menelaus  sought  to  revenge  the  affront  he  had  receiv- 
ed ;  Agamemnon  was  flattered  with  the  supreme  com- 
mand ;  some  came  to  share  the  glory,  others  the 
plunder  ;  some  because  they  had  bad  wives  at  home, 
some  in  hopes  of  getting  Trojan  mistresses  abroad  ; 
and  Homer  thought  the  stoiy  extremely  proper  for 
the  subject  of  the  best  poem  in  the  world.  Thus  you 
became  famous  :  your  elopement  was  made  a  national 
quarrel ;  the  animosities  of  both  nations  were  kindled 
by  frequent  battles :  and  the  object  was  not  the  re- 
storing of  Helen  to  Menelaus,  but  the  destruction  of 
Troy  by  the  Greeks. — My  triumphs,  on  the  other 
hand,  were  all  owing  to  myself,  and  to  the  influence 
of  personal  merit  and  charms  over  the  heart  of  man. 
My  birth  was  obscure,  my  fortunes  low  ;  I  had  past 
the  bloom  of  youth,  and  was  advancing  to  that  period 
at  which  the  generality  of  our  sex  lose  all  importance 
with  the  other ;  I  had  to  do  with  a  man  of  gallantry 
and  intrigue,  a  monarch  who  had  been  long  familiar- 
ized with  beauty,  and  accustomed  to  every  refinement 
of  pleasure  which  the  most  splendid  court  in  Europe 
could  afford  ;  Love  and  Beauty  seemed  to  have  ex- 
hausted all  their  powers  of  pleasing  i'or  him  in  vain  : 
yet  this  man  I  captivated,  I  fixed  ;  and  far  from  being 
content,  as  other  beauties  had  been,  with  the  honour 
of  possessing  his  heart,  1  brought  him  to  make  me  hi* 


A  DIALOGUE  OF  THE  DEAD.  141 

wife,  and  gained  an  honourable  title  to  his  tenderesl 
affection. — The  infatuation  of  Paris  reflected  little 
honour  upon  you.  A  thoughtless  youth,  gay,  tender, 
and  impressible,  struck  with  your  beauty,  in  violation 
of  all  the  most  sacred  laws  of  hospitality  carries  you 
off,  and  obstinately  refuses  to  restore  you  to  your  hus- 
band. You  seduced  Paris  from  his  duty, — I  recov- 
ered Louis  from  vice  ;  you  were  the  mistress  of  the 
Trojan  prince,  I  was  the  companion  of  the  French 
monarch. 

Helen. — I  grant  you  were  the  wife  of  Louis,  but 
not  the  queen  of  France.  Your  great  object  was  am- 
bition, and  in  that  you  met  with  but  a  partial  success  : 
— my  ruling  star  was  love,  and  I  gave  up  every  thing 
for  it.  But  tell  me,  did  not  I  show  my  influence  over 
Menelaus  in  his  taking  me  again  after  the  destruction 
of  Troy  ? 

Maint. — That  circumstance  alone  is  sufficient  to 
show  that  he  did  not  love  you  with  any  delicacy.  He 
took  you  as  a  possession  that  was  restored  to  him,  as 
a  booty  that  he  had  recovered ;  and  he  had  not  senti- 
ment enough  to  care  whether  he  had  your  heart  or 
not.  The  heroes  of  your  age  were  capable  of  admir- 
ing beauty,  and  often  fought  for  the  possession  of  it ; 
but  they  had  not  refinement  enough  to  be  capable  of 
any  pure,  sentimental  attachment  or  delicate  passion. 
Was  that  period  the  triumph  of  love  and  gallantry, 
when  a  fine  woman  and  a  tripod  were  placed  together 
for  prizes  at  a  wrestling-bout,  and  the  tripod  esteemed 
the  more  valuable  reward  of  the  two  ?  No  ;  it  is  our 
Clelia,  our  Cassandra,  and  Princess  of  Cleves  that 
have  polished  mankind  and  taught  them  how  to  love. 
Helen. — Rather  say  you  have  lost  sight  of  na- 
ture and  the  passion,  between  bombast  on  one  hand 
and  conceit  on  the  other.  Shall  one  of  the  cold  tem- 
perament of  France  teach  a  Grecian  how  to  love  ? 


142  A  DIALOGUE  OF  THE  DEAD. 

Greece,  the  parent  of  fair  forms  and  soft  desires,  the 
nurse  of  poetry,  whose  soft  climate  and  tempered  skies 
disposed  to  every  gentler  feeling,  and  tuned  the  heart 
to  harmony  and  love  ! — was  Greece  a  land  of  barba- 
rians ?  But  recollect,  if  you  can,  an  incident  which 
showed  the  power  of  beauty  in  stronger  colours  than 
when  the  grave  old  counsellors  of  Priam  on  my  ap- 
pearance were  struck  with  fond  admiration,  and  could 
not  bring  themselves  to  blame  the  cause  of  a  war  that 
had  almost  ruined  their  country  : — you  see  I  charmed 
the  old  as  well  as  seduced  the  young. 

Maint. — But  I,  after  I  was  grown  old,  charmed 
the  young  ;  I  was  idolized  in  a  capital  where  taste, 
luxury,  and  magnificence  were  at  the  height ;  I  was 
celebrated  by  the  greatest  wits  of  my  time,  and  my 
letters  have  been  carefully  handed  down  to  posterity. 

Helen. — Tell  me  now  sincerely,  were  you  happy 
in  your  elevated  fortune  ? 

Maint. — Alas  !  Heaven  knows  I  was  far  otherwise  : 
a  thousand  times  did  I  wish  for  my  dear  Scarron  again. 
He  was  a  very  ugly  fellow  it  is  true,  and  had  but  little 
money  ;  but  the  most  easy,  entertaining  companion  in 
the  world  :  we  danced,  laughed,  and  sung ;  I  spoke 
without  fear  or  anxiety,  and  was  sure  to  please. 
With  Louis  all  was  gloom,  constraint,  and  a  painful 
solicitude  to  please — which  seldom  produces  its  effect : 
the  king's  temper  had  been  soured  in  the  latter  part 
of  life  by  frequent  disappointments  ;  and  I  was  forced 
continually  to  endeavour  to  procure  him  that  cheerful- 
ness which  I  had  not  myseif.  Louis  was  accustomed 
to  the  most  delicate  flatteries ;  and  though  I  had  a 
good  share  of  wit,  my  faculties  were  continually  on 
the  stretch  to  entertain  him, — a  state  of  mind  little 
consistent  with  happiness  or  ease :  I  was  afraid  to  ad- 
vance my  friends  or  punish  my  enemies.  My  pupils 
at  St.  Cvr  were  not  more  secluded  from  the  world  in 


A  DIALOGUE  OF  THE  DEAD.  143 

a  cloister  than  I  was  in  the  bosom  of  the  court ;  a  se- 
cret disgust  and  weariness  consumed  me.  I  had  no 
relief  but  in  my  work  and  books  of  devotion  ;  with 
these  alone  I  had  a  gleam  of  happiness. 

Helen. — Alas  !  one  need  not  have  married  a  great 
monarch  for  that. 

Maint. — But  deign  to  inform  me,  Helen,  if  you 
were  really  as  beautiful  as  fame  reports  ?  for  to  say 
truth,  I  cannot  in  your  shade  see  the  beauty  which  for 
nine  long  years  had  set  the  world  in  arms. 

Helen. — Honestly,  no  ;  I  was  rather  low,  and 
something  sunburnt :  but  I  had  the  good  fortune  to 
please  ;  that  was  all.    I  was  greatly  obliged  to  Homer. 

Maint. — And  did  you  live  tolerably  with  Mene- 
laus  after  all  your  adventures  ? 

Helen. — As  well  as  possible.  Menelaus  was  a 
good-natured  domestic  man,  and  was  glad  to  sit  down 
and  end  his  days  in  quiet.  I  persuaded  him  that 
Venus  and  the  Fates  were  the  cause  of  all  my  irregu- 
larities, which  he  complaisantly  believed.  Besides, 
I  was  not  sorry  to  return  home  :  for  to  tell  you  a  secret, 
Paris  had  been  unfaithful  to  me  long  before  his  death, 
and  was  fond  of  a  little  Trojan  brunette  whose  office 
it  was  to  hold  up  my  train  ;  but  it  was  thought  dis- 
honourable to  give  me  up.  I  began  to  think  love  a 
very  foolish  thing  :  I  became  a  great  housekeeper, 
worked  the  buttles  of  Troy  in  tapestry,  and  spun  with 
my  maids  by  the  side  of  Menelaus,  who  was  so  satis- 
fied with  my  conduct,  and  behaved,  good  man,  with 
so  much  fondness,  that  I  verily  think  this  was  the  hap- 
piest period  of  my  life. 

Maint. — Nothing  more  likely  :  but  the  most  ob- 
scure wife  in  Greece  could  rival  you  there. — Adieu  ! 
you  have  convinced  me  how  little  fame  and  greatness 
conduce  to  happiness. 


144 


A  RIDDLE. 


An  unfortunate  maid, 

I  by  love  was  betrav'd, 
And  wasted  and  pined  by  my  grief  -, 

To  deep  solitudes  tlien, 

Of  rock,  mountain,  and  glen, 
From  the  world  I  retired  for  relief. 

Yet  there  by  the  sound 

Of  my  voice  I  am  found, 
Though  no  footstep  betrays  where  I  tread  ■ 

The  poet  and  lover, 

My  haunts  to  discover, 
Still  leave  at  the  dawn  their  soft  bed. 

If  the  poet  sublime 

Address  me  in  rhyme, 
In  rhyme  I  support  conversation  ; 

To  the  lover's  fond  moan 

I  return  groan  for  groan, 
And  by  sympathy  give  consolation. 

Though  I  'm  apt,  't  is  averr'd, 

To  love  the  last  word, 
Nor  can  I  pretend  't  is  a  fiction  ; 

I  shall  ne'er  be  so  rude 

On  your  talk  to  intrude 
With  anything  like  contradiction. 

The  fair  damsels  of  old 
By  their  mothers  were  told, 

That  maids  should  be  seen  and  not  heard  ; 
The  reverse  is  my  case, 
For  you  '11  ne'er  see  my  face, 

To  my  voice  all  my  charms  are  transferr'd. 


145 
ON    EXPENSE 

A  DIALOGUE. 


You  seem  to  be  in  a  reverie,  Harriet ;  or  are  you 
tired  with  your  long  bustling  walk  through  the  streets 
of  London  ? 

Not  at  all  papa  ;  but  I  was  wondering  at  something. 

A  grown  person  even  cannot  even  walk  through 
such  a  metropolis  without  meeting  with  many  things 
to  wonder  at.  But  let  us  hear  the  particular  subject 
of  your  admiration ;  was  it  the  height  and  circum- 
ference of  St.  Paul's,  or  the  automatons,  or  the 
magical  effect  of  the  Panorama  that  has  most  struck 
you  ? 

No,  papa  ;  but  I  was  wondering  how  you  who  have 
always  so  much  money  in  your  pockets  can  go  through 
the  streets  of  London,  all  full  of  fine  shops,  and  not 
buy  things  :  I  am  sure  if  I  had  money  I  could  not 
help  spending  it  all. 

As  you  never  have  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  it  is 
given  you  only  to  please  your  fancy  with,  there  is  no 
harm  in  your  spending  it  in  any  thing  you  have  a 
mind  to  ;  but  it  is  very  well  for  you  and  me  too  that 
the  money  does  not  burn  in  my  pocket  as  it  does  in 
yours. 

No,  to  be  sure  you  would  not  spend  all  your  money 
in  those  shops,  because  you  must  buy  bread  and  meat, 
but  you  might  spend  a  good  deal.  But  you  walk  past 
just  as  if  you  did  not  see  them  :  you  never  stop  to 
give  one  look.  Now  tell  me  really,  papa,  can  you 
help  wishing  for  all  those  pretty  things  that  stand  in 
die  shop  windows  ? 

13 


14G  ON  EXPENSE. 

For  all  !  Would  you  have  me  wish  for  all  of  them  r 
But  I  will  answer  you  seriously.  1  do  walk  hy  these 
tempting  shops  without  wishing  for  any  thing,  and  in- 
deed in  general  without  seeing  them. 

Well,  that  is  hecause  you  are  a  man,  and  you  do 
not  care  for  what  I  admire  so  very  much. 

No,  there  you  are  mistaken  ;  for  though  I  may  not 
admire  them  so  very  much  as  you  say  you  do,  there 
are  a  vast  number  of  things  sold  in  London  which  it 
would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  have  in  my  possession. 
1  should  greatly  like  one  of  Dollond's  best  reflecting 
telescopes.  I  could  lay  out  a  great  deal  of  money,  if  I 
had  it  to  spare,  in  books  of  botany  and  natural  his- 
tory. Nay,  I  assure  you  I  should  by  no  means  be 
indifferent  to  the  fine  fruit  exposed  at  the  fruit-shops  ; 
the  plums  with  the  blue  upon  them  as  if  they  were 
just  taken  from  the  tree,  the  luscious  hot-house  grapes, 
and  the  melons  and  pine-apples.  Believe  me,  I  could 
eat  these  things  with  as  good  a  relish  as  you  could. 

Then  how  can  you  help  buying  them,  when  you 
have  money  ;  and  especially,  papa,  how  can  you  help 
thinking  about  them  and  wishing  for  them  ? 

London  is  the  best  place  in  the  world  to  cure  a 
person  of  extravagance,  and  even  of  extravagant 
wishes.  I  see  so  many  costly  things  here  which  I 
know  I  could  not  buy,  even  if  I  were  to  lay  out  all 
the  money  I  have  in  the  world,  that  I  never  think  of 
buying  any  thing  which  1  do  not  really  want.  Our 
furniture,  you  know,  is  old  and  plain.  Perhaps  if 
there  were  only  a  little  better  furniture  to  be  had,  I 
might  be  tempted  to  change  it ;  but  when  I  see  houses 
where  a  whole  fortune  is  laid  out  in  decorating  a  set 
of  apartments,  I  am  content  with  chairs  whose  only 
use  is  to  sit  down  upon,  and  tables  that  were  in  fashion 
half  a  century  ago.  In  short,  I  have  formed  the  habit 
of  self-government,  one  of  the  most  useful  powers  a 


ON  EXPENSE.  147 

man  can  be  possessed  of.  Self-government  belongs 
only  to  civilized  man, — a  savage  has  no  idea  of  it.  A 
North-American  Indian  is  temperate  when  he  has  no 
liquor ;  but  as  soon  as  liquor  is  within  his  reach,  he 
invariably  drinks  till  he  is  first  furious  and  then  insen- 
sible. He  possesses  no  power  over  himself,  and  he 
literally  can  no  more  help  it,  than  iron  can  help  being 
drawn  by  the  loadstone. 

But  he  seldom  gets  liquor,  so  he  has  not  a  habit  of 
drinking. 

You  are  right ;  he  has  not  the  habit  of  drinking,  but 
he  wants  the  habit  of  self-control  :  this  can  only  be 
gained  by  being  often  in  the  midst  of  temptations,  and 
resisting  them.  This  is  the  wholesome  discipline  of 
the  mind.  The  first  time  a  man  denies  himself  any 
thing  he  likes  and  which  it  is  in  his  power  to  procure, 
there  is  a  great  struggle  within  him,  and  uneasy  wishes 
will  disturb  for  some  time  the  tranquillity  of  his  mind. 
He  has  gained  the  victory,  but  the  enemy  dies  hard. 
The  next  time  he  does  not  wish  so  much,  but  he  still 
thinks  about  it.  After  a  while  he  does  not  think  of 
it ;  he  does  not  even  see  it.  A  person  of  moderate 
fortune,  like  myself,  who  lives  in  a  gay  and  splendid 
metropolis,  is  accustomed  to  see  every  day  a  hundred 
things  which  it  would  be  madness  to  think  of  buying. 

Yes  ;  but  if  you  were  very  rich,  papa — if  you  were 
a  lord  ? 

No  man  is  so  rich  as  to  buy  every  thing  his  unre- 
strained fancy  might  prompt  him  to  desire.  Hounds 
and  horses,  pictures  and  statues  and  buildings,  will 
exhaust  any  fortune.  There  is  hardly  any  one  taste 
so  simple  or  innocent,  but  what  a  man  might  spend 
his  whole  estate  in  it,  if  he  were  resolved  to  gratify  it 
to  the  utmost.  A  nobleman  may  just  as  easily  ruin 
himself  by  extravagance  as  a  private  man,  and  indeed 
many  do  so. 


148  ON  EXPENSE. 

But  if  you  were  a  king  ? 

If  I  were  a  king,  the  mischief  would  be  much 
greater  ;  for  I  should  ruin  not  only  myself,  but  my 
subjects. 

A  king  could  not  hurt  his  subjects,  however,  with 
buying  toys  or  things  to  eat. 

Indeed  but  he  might.  What  is  a  diamond  but  a 
mere  toy  ?  but  a  large  diamond  is  an  object  of  prince- 
ly expense.  That  called  the  Pitt  diamond  was  valued 
at  £1 ,000,000.  It  was  offered  to  George  the  Second, 
but  he  wisely  thought  it  too  dear.  The  dress  of  the 
late  queen  of  France  was  thought  by  the  prudent 
Necker  a  serious  object  of  expense  in  the  revenues  of 
that  large  kingdom  ;  and  her  extravagance  and  that  of 
the  king's  brothers  had  a  great  share  in  bringing  on 
the  calamities  of  the  kingdom.  As  to  eating,  you 
could  gratify  yourself  with  laying  out  a  shilling  or  two 
at  the  pastry-cook's  :  but  Prince  Potemkin,  who  had 
the  revenues  of  the  mighty  empire  of  Russia  at  com- 
mand, could  not  please  his  appetite  without  his  dish  of 
sterlet  soup,  which  cost  every  time  it  was  made  above 
thirty  pounds  ;  and  he  would  send  one  of  his  aids-de- 
camp an  errand  from  Yassy  to  Petersburg,  a  distance 
of  nearly  700  miles,  to  fetch  him  a  tureen  of  it.  He 
once  bought  all  the  cherries  of  a  tree  in  a  green-house 
at  about  half-a-crown  a  piece.  The  Roman  empire 
was  far  richer  than  the  Russian,  and  in  the  time  of 
the  Emperors  was  all  under  the  power  of  one  man. 
Yet  when  they  had  such  gluttons  at  Vitellius  and 
Heliogabalus,  the  revenue  of  whole  provinces  was 
hardly  sufficient  to  give  them  a  dinner  :  they  had 
tongues  of  nightingales,  and  such  kind  of  dishes,  the 
value  of  which  was  merely  in  the  expense. 

I  think  the  throat  of  the  poor  little  nightingales  might 
have  given  them  much  more  pleasure  than  the  tongue. 

True  :    but  the   proverb   says,  The  belly  has  no 


ON  EXPENSE.  149 

cars.  In  modern  Rome,  Pope  Adrian,  a  frugal  Dutch- 
man, complained  of  the  expense  his  predecessor  Leo 
\.  was  at  in  peacock  sausages.  The  expenses  of 
Louis  XIV.  were  of  a  more  elegant  kind  ; — he  was 
fond  of  fine  tapestry,  mirrors,  gardens,  statues,  mag- 
nificent palaces.  These  tastes  were  becoming  in  a 
great  king,  and  would  have  been  serviceable  to  his 
kingdom  if  kept  within  proper  limits  :  but  he  could 
not  deny  himself  any  thing,  however  extravagant,  that 
it  came  into  his  mind  to  wish  for  ;  and  indeed  would 
have  imagined  it  beneath  him  to  think  at  all  about  the 
expense  :  and  therefore  while  he  was  throwing  up 
water  fifty  feet  high  at  his  palaces  of  Versailles  and 
Marli,  and  spouting  it  out  of  the  mouths  of  dolphins 
and  tritons,  thousands  of  his  people  in  the  distant 
provinces  were  wanting  bread. 

I  am  sure  I  would  not  have  done  so  to  please  my 
fancy. 

Nor  he  neither  perhaps,  if  he  had  seen  them ;  but 
these  poor  men  and  their  families  were  a  great  way 
ofT,  and  all  the  people  about  him  looked  pleased  and 
happy,  and  said  he  was  the  most  generous  prince  the 
world  had  ever  seen. 

Well,  but  if  I  had  Aladdin's  lamp  I  might  have 
every  tiling  I  wished  for. 

I  am  glad  at  least  I  have  driven  you  to  fairyland. 
You  might  no  doubt  with  the  lamp  of  Aladdin,  or 
Fortunatus's  purse,  have  every  thing  you  wished  for  ; 
but  do  you  know  what  the  consequences  would  be  ? 

Very  pleasant,  I  should  think. 

On  the  contrary  ;  you  would  become  whimsical 
and  capricious,  and  would  soon  grow  tired  of  every 
thing.  We  do  not  receive  pleasure  long  from  any 
thing  that  is  not  bought  with  our  own  labour  :  this  is 
one  of  those  permanent  laws  of  nature  which  man  can- 
not change  ;  and  therefore  pleasure  and  exertion  will 


150  ON  EXPENSE. 

never  be  separated  even  in  imagination  in  a  well-regu- 
lated mind.  I  could  tell  yon  of  a  couple  who  receiv- 
ed more  true  enjoyment  of  their  fortune  than  Aladdin 
himself. 

Pray  do. 

The  couple  I  am  thinking  of  lived  about  a  century 
ago  in  one  of  our  rich  trading  towns,  which  was  then 
just  beginning  to  rise  by  manufacturing  tapes  and  inkle. 
They  had  married  because  they  loved  one  another  ; 
they  had  very  little  to  begin  with,  but  they  were  not 
afraid,  because  they  were  industrious.  When  the 
husband  had  come  to  be  the  richest  merchant  in  the 
place,  he  took  great  pleasure  in  talking  over  his  small 
beginnings  ;  but  he  used  always  to  add,  that  poor  as 
he  was  when  he  married,  he  would  not  have  taken  a 
thousand  pounds  for  the  table  his  dame  and  he  ate 
their  dinner  from. 

What !  had  he  so  costly  a  table  before  he  was 
grown  rich  ? 

On  the  contrary,  he  had  no  table  at  all ;  and  his 
wife  and  he  used  to  sit  close  together,  and  place  their 
dish  of  pottage  upon  their  knees  ; — their  knees  were 
the  table.  They  soon  got  forward  in  the  world,  as 
industrious  people  generally  do,  and  were  enabled  to 
purchase  one  thing  after  another  :  first  perhaps  a  deal 
table  ;  after  a  while  a  mahogany  one  ;  then  a  sump- 
tuous sideboard.  At  first  they  sat  on  wooden  benches  ; 
then  they  had  two  or  three  rush-bottomed  chairs  ;  and 
when  they  were  rich  enough  to  have  an  arm-chair  for 
the  husband,  and  another  for  a  friend,  to  smoke  their 
pipes  in,  how  magnificent  they  would  think  them- 
selves !  At  first  they  would  treat  a  neighbour  with  a 
slice  of  bread  and  cheese  and  a  draught  of  beer  ;  by 
degrees  with  a  good  joint  and  a  pudding  ;  and  at 
length  with  all  the  delicacies  of  a  fashionable  enter- 
tainment :  and  all  along  they  would  be  able  to  say, 


ON  EXPENSE.  151 

;'  The  blessing  of  God  upon  our  own  industry  has  pro- 
cured us  these  things."  By  this  means  they  would 
relish  every  gradation  and  increase  of  their  enjoy- 
ments :  whereas  the  man  born  to  a  fortune  swallows 
his  pleasures  whole,  he  does  not  taste  them.  Another 
inconvenience  that  attends  the  man  who  is  born  rich, 
is,  that  he  has  not  early  learned  to  deny  himself.  If 
I  were  a  nobleman,  though  I  could  not  buy  every 
thing  I  might  fancy  for  myself,  yet  playthings  for  you 
would  not  easily  ruin  me,  and  you  would  probably 
have  a  great  deal  of  pocket-money ;  and  you  would 
grow  up  with  a  confirmed  habit  of  expense  and  no  in- 
genuity, for  you  would  never  try  to  make  any  thing, 
or  to  find  out  some  substitute  if  you  could  not  get  just 
the  tiling  you  wanted.  That  is  a  very  fine  cabinet  of 
shells  which  the  young  heiress  showed  you  the  other 
day  :  it  is  perfectly  arranged  and  mounted  with  the 
utmost  elegance,  and  yet  I  am  sure  she  has  not  half 
the  pleasure  in  it,  which  you  have  had  with  those  lit- 
tle drawers  of  shells  of  your  own  collecting,  aided  by 
the  occasional  contributions  of  friends,  which  you  have 
arranged  for  yourself  and  display  with  such  triumph. 
And  now,  to  show  you  that  I  do  sometimes  tjiink  of 
the  pleasures  of  my  dear  girl,  here  is  a  plaything  for 
you  which  I  bought  while  you  were  chatting  at  the 
door  of  a  shop  with  one  of  your  young  friends. 

A  magic-lantern  ! — how  delightful  !  O,  thank  you, 
papa !  Edward,  come  and  look  at  my  charming 
magic-lantern. 


THE  END. 


Note.  On  page  83,  the  invention  of  the  Julian  period  is  wrongly 
ascribed  to  Julius  Scaliger.  It  was  invented  by  his  son,  Joseph  Justus 
Scaliger,  and  was  called  Julian,  because  it  consists  of  a  certain  num- 
ber of  Julian  years.  American  Editor. 


EVENINGS  AT  HOME; 

CONSISTING  OF 

A  VARIETY  OF  MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES, 

|  FOR 

THE    INSTRUCTION    AND    AMUSEMENT 
OF 

YOUNG  PERSONS. 


The  fourteen  following  pieces  embrace  the  whole  portion  contribut- 
ed by  Mrs.  Barbauld  to  the  work,  whose  title  at  length  runs, 
"  Evenings  at  Home  ;  or  the  Juvenile  Budget  opened,  consisting  of 
a  variety  of  Miscellaneous  Pieces,  for  the  Instruction  and  Amusement 
of  Young  Persons,  by  Dr.  Aikin  and  Mrs.  Barbauld.    In  2  vols." 


EVENINGS  AT  HOME, 


THE  WASP  AND  BEE. 

A  FABLE. 


A  Wasp  met  a  Bee,  and  said  to  him,  Pray,  can 
you  tell  me  what  is  the  reason  that  men  are  so  ill- 
natured  to  me,  while  they  are  so  fond  of  you  ?  We 
are  both  very  much  alike,  only  that  the  broad  golden 
rings  about  my  body  make  me  much  handsomer  than 
you  are  :  we  are  both  winged  insects,  we  both  love 
honev,  and  we  both  sting  people  when  we  are  angry  ; 
yet  men  always  hate  me  and  try  to  kill  me,  though 
I  am  much  more  familiar  with  them  than  you  are,  and 
pay  them  visits  in  their  houses,  and  at  their  tea-table, 
and  at  all  their  meals ;  while  you  are  very  shy,  and 
hardly  ever  come  near  them  :  yet  they  build  you 
curious  houses,  thatched  with  straw,  and  take  care  of 
and  feed  you,  in  the  winter  very  often  : — I  wonder 
what  is  the  reason. 

The  Bee  said,  because  you  never  do  them  any 
good,  but,  on  the  contrary,  are  very  troublesome  and 
mischievous ;  therefore  they  do  not  like  to  see  you ; 
but  they  know  that  I  am  busy  all  day  long  in  making 
them  honey.  You  had  better  pay  them  fewer  visits, 
and  try  to  be  useful. 


THE  YOUNG  MOUSE. 

A  FABLE. 


A  young  Mouse  lived  in  a  cupboard  where  sweet- 
meats were  kept :  she  dined  every  day  upon  biscuit, 
marmalade,  or  fine  sugar.  Never  had  any  little 
Mouse  lived  so  well.  She  had  often  ventured  to  peep 
at  the  family  while  they  sat  at  supper  ;  nay,  she  had 
sometimes  stole  down  on  the  carpet,  and  picked  up 
the  crums,  and  nobody  had  ever  hurt  her.  Sho- 
would  have  been  quite  happy,  but  that  she  was  some- 
times frightened  by  the  cat,  and  then  she  ran  trem- 
bling to  her  hole  behind  the  wainseot.  One  day  she 
came  running  to  her  mother  in  great  joy  !  Mother  ! 
said  she,  the  good  people  of  this  family  have  built  me 
a  house  to  live  in  ;  it  is  in  the  cupboard  :  I  am  sure 
it  is  for  me,  for  it  is  just  big  enough  :  the  bottom  is  of 
wood,  and  it  is  covered  all  over  with  wires ;  and  I 
dare  say  they  have  made  it  on  purpose  to  screen  me 
from  that  terrible  cat,  which  ran  after  me  so  often  : 
there  is  an  entrance  just  big  enough  for  me,  but  puss 
cannot  follow  :  and  they  have  been  so  good  as  to  put 
in  some  toasted  cheese,  which  smells  so  deliciously, 
that  I  should  have  run  in  directly  and  taken  posses- 
sion of  my  new  house,  but  I  thought  I  would  tell  you 
first,  that  we  might  go  in  together,  and  both  lodge 
there  to  night,  for  it  will  hold  us  both. 

My  dear  child,  said  the  old  Mouse,  it  is  most  happy 
you  did  not  go  in,  for  this  house  is  called  a  trap,  and 
you  would  never  have  come  out  again,  except  to 
have  been  devoured,  or  put  to  death  in  some  way  or 
other.  Though  man  has  not  so  fierce  a  look  as  a 
cat,  he  is  as  much  our  enemy,  and  has  still  more  cun- 


ALFRED. 

A  DRAMA. 

Persons  of  the  Drama. 

Alfred,  King  of  England. 

Gubba,  a  Farmer. 

Gandelin,  his  Wife. 

Ella,  an  Officer  of  Alfred. 

Scene —  The  Isle  of  Athelney. 

Alf  How  retired  and  quiet  is  every  thing  in  this 
little  spot !  The  river  winds  its  silent  waters  round 
this  retreat ;  and  the  tangled  bushes  of  the  thicket 
fence  it  in  from  the  attack  of  an  enemy.  The  bloody 
Danes  have  not  yet  pierced  into  this  wild  solitude. 
I  believe  I  am  safe  from  their  pursuit.  But  I  hope 
I  shall  find  some  inhabitants  here,  otherwise  1  shall  die 
of  hunger. — Ha  !  here  is  a  narrow  path  through  the 
wood  ;  and  I  think  I  see  the  smoke  of  a  cottage  rising 
between  the  trees.     I  will  bend  my  steps  thither. 

Scene — Before  the  Cottage. 

Gubba  coming  forward.     Gandelin  ivithin. 

Alf.  Good  even  to  you,  good  man.  Are  you  dis- 
posed to  show  hospitality  to  a  poor  traveller  ? 

Gub.  Why  truly  there  are  so  many  poor  travellers 
now  a  days,  diat  if  we  entertain  them  all,  we  shall 
have  nothing  left  for  ourselves.  However,  come 
along  to  my  wife,  and  we  will  see  what  can  be  done 
for  you. 

Wife,  I  am  very  weary  ;  I  have  been  chopping 
wood  all  day. 

Gan.  You  are  always  ready  for  your  supper,  but 
it  is  not  ready  for  you,  I  assure  you  :  the  cakes  will 
1* 


ALFRED. 


take  an  hour  to  bake,  and  the  sun  is  yet  high  ;  it  has 
not  yet  dipped  behind  the  old  barn.  But  who  have 
you  with  you,  I  trow  ? 

Alf.  Good  mother,  I  am  a  stranger ;  and  entreat 
you  to  afford  me  food  and  shelter. 

Gan.  Good  mother,  quotha  !  Good  wife,  if  you 
please,  and  welcome.  But  I  do  not  love  strangers  ; 
and  the  land  has  no  reason  to  love  them.  It  has  never 
been  a  merry  day  for  Old  England  since  strangers 
came  into  it. 

Alf.  I  am  not  a  stranger  in  England,  though  I  am 
a  stranger  here.     I  am  a  true  born  Englishman. 

Gub.  And  do  you  hate  those  wicked  Danes,  that 
eat  us  up,  and  burn  our  houses,  and  drive  away  our 
cattle  ? 

Alf.  I  do  hate  them. 

Gan.  Heartily  !  He  does  not  speak  heartily,  hus- 
band. 

Alf.  Heartily  I  hate  them  ;   most  heartily. 

Gub.  Give  me  thy  hand  then  ;  thou  art  an  honest 
fellow. 

Alf  I  was  with  King  Alfred  in  the  last  battle  he 
fought. 

Gan.  With  King  Alfred  ?  heaven  bless  him. 

Gub.  What  is  become  of  our  good  King  .? 

Alf.  Did  you  love  him,  then  ? 

Gub.  Yes,  as  much  as  a  poor  man  may  love  a 
king  ;  and  kneeled  down  and  prayed  for  him  every 
night,  that  he  might  conquer  those  Danish  wolves  ; 
but  it  was  not  to  be  so. 

Alf  You  could  not  love  Alfred  better  than  I  did. 

Gub.  But  what  is  become  of  him? 

Alf.  He  is  thought  to  be  dead. 

Gub.  Well,  these  are  sad  times  ;  heaven  help  us  ! 
Come,  you  shall  be  welcome  to  share  the  brown  loat 
with  us ;  I  suppose  you  are  too  sharp  set  to  be  nice. 


ALFRED.  7 

Gan.  Ay,  come  with  us ;  you  shall  be  as  welcome 
as  a  prince  !  But  hark  ye,  husband  ;  though  1  am 
very  willing  to  be  charitable  to  this  stranger  (it  would 
be  a  sin  to  be  otherwise),  yet  there  is  no  reason  he 
should  not  do  something  to  maintain  himself :  he  looks 
strong  and  capable. 

Gub.  Why,  that 's  true.    What  can  you  do,  friend  ? 

Alf.  I  am  very  willing  to  help  you  in  any  thing  you 
choose  to  set  me  about.  It  will  please  me  best  to 
earn  my  bread  before  I  eat  it. 

Gub.  Let  me  see.    Can  you  tie  up  faggots  neatly  ? 

Alf.  I  have  not  been  used  to  it.  I  am  afraid  I 
should  be  awkward. 

Gub.  Can  you  thatch  ?  There  is  a  piece  blown 
off  the  cow-house. 

Alf  Alas,  I  cannot  thatch. 

Gan.  Ask  him  if  he  can  weave  rushes :  we  want 
some  new  baskets. 

Alf  I  have  never  learned. 

Grub.  Can  you  stack  hay  ? 

Alf.  No. 

Gub.  Why,  here  's  a  fellow !  and  yet  he  hath  as 
many  pair  of  hands  as  his  neighbours.  Dame,  can 
you  employ  him  in  the  house  ?  He  might  lay  wood 
on  the  fire,  and  rub  the  tables. 

Gan.  Let  him  watch  these  cakes,  then  :  I  must 
go  and  milk  the  kine. 

Gub.  And  I  '11  go  and  stack  the  wood,  since  sup- 
per is  not  ready. 

Gan.  But  pray  observe,  friend  !  do  not  let  the 
cakes  burn  ;  turn  them  often  on  the  hearth. 

Alf.  I  shall  observe  your  directions. 

Alfred  alone. 

Alf.  For  myself,  I  could  bear  it ;  but  England,  my 
bleeding  country,  for  thee  my  heart  is  wrung  with 


8  ALFRED. 

bitter  anguish ! — From  the  Humber  to  the  Thames 
the  rivers  are  stained  with  blood  ! — My  brave  soldiers 
cut  to  pieces  ! — My  poor  people — some  massacred, 
others  driven  from  their  warm  homes,  stripped,  abused, 
insulted  : — and  1,  whom  heaven  appointed  their  shep- 
herd, unable  to  rescue  my  defenceless  flock  from  the 
ravenous  jaws  of  these  devourers  ! — Gracious  heaven  ! 
if  I  am  not  worthy  to  save  this  land  from  the  Danish 
sword,  raise  up  some  other  hero  to  fight  with  more 
success  than  I  have  done,  and  let  me  spend  my  life  in 
this  obscure  cottage,  in  these  servile  offices :  I  shall 
be  content,  if  England  is  happy. 

O  !  here  come  my  blunt  host  and  hostess. 

Enter  Gubba  and  Gandelin. 

Gan.  Help  me  down  with  the  pail,  husband.  This 
new  milk,  with  the  cakes,  will  make  an  excellent  sup- 
per :  but,  mercy  on  us,  how  they  are  burnt !  black  as 
my  shoe  ;  they  have  not  once  been  turned  :  you  oaf, 
you  lubbard,  you  lazy  loon — 

Alf.  Indeed,  dame,  I  am  sorry  for  it ;  but  my  mind 
was  full  of  sad  thoughts. 

Gub.  Come,  wife,  you  must  forgive  him ;  perhaps 
he  is  in  love.  I  remember  when  I  was  in  love  with 
thee— 

Gan.  You  remember ! 

Gub.  Yes,  dame,  I  do  remember  it,  though  it  was 
many  a  long  year  since  ;  my  mother  was  making  a 
kettle  of  furmenty — 

Gan.  Pr'ythee,  hold  thy  tongue,  and  let  us  eat  our 
suppers. 

Alf.  How  refreshing  is  this  sweet  new  milk,  and 
this  wholesome  bread  ! 

Gub.  Eat  heartily,  friend.  Where  shall  we  lodge 
him,  Gandelin  ? 

Gan,  We  have  but  one  bed,  you  know  ;  but  mere 
is  fresh  straw  in  the  barn. 


ALFRED.  9 

Alf.  (aside.)  If  I  shall  not  lodge  like  a  king,  at 
least  I  shall  lodge  like  a  soldier.  Alas  !  how  many  of 
my  poor  soldiers  are  stretched  on  the  bare  ground  ! 

Gan.  What  noise  do  I  hear  ?  It  is  the  trampling 
of  horses.  Good  husband,  go  and  see  what  is  the 
matter. 

Alf  Heaven  forbid  my  misfortunes  should  bring 
destruction  on  this  si.  iple  family  !  I  had  rather  have 
perished  in  the  wood. 

Gubba  returns  followed  by  Ella  with  his  sword 
drawn. 

Gan.  Mercy  defend  us,  a  sword  ! 

Gub.  The  Danes  !  the  Danes  !  O  do  not  kill  us  ! 

Ella,  (kneeling.)  My  Liege,  my  Lord,  my  Sove- 
reign ;  have  I  found  you  ! 

Alf.  (embracing  him.)    My  brave  Ella. 

Ella.  I  bring  you  good  news,  my  sovereign  !  Your 
troops  that  were  shut  up  in  Kinwith  Castle  made  a 
desperate  sally — the  Danes  were  slaughtered.  The 
fierce  Hubba  lies  gasping  on  the  plain. 

Alf.  Is  it  possible  !    Am  I  yet  a  king  ? 

Ella.  Their  famous  standard,  the  Danish  raven,  is 
taken  ;  their  troops  are  panic  struck ;  the  English 
soldiers  call  aloud  for  Alfred.  Here  is  a  letter  which 
will  inform  you  of  more  particulars.    (Gives  a  letter.) 

Gub.  (aside.)  What  will  become  of  us  !  Ah, 
dame,  that  tongue  of  thine  he.s  undone  us ! 

Gan.  O,  my  poor,  dear  husband !  we  shall  all  be 
hanged,  that  's  certain.  But  who  could  have  thought 
it  was  the  king  ? 

Gub.  Why,  Gandelin,  do  you  see,  we  might  have 
guessed  he  was  born  to  be  a  king,  or  some  such  great 
man,  because,  you  know,  he  was  fit  for  nothing  else. 

Alf.  (coming  forward.)  God  be  praised  for  these 
tidings  !     Hope  is  sprung  up  out  of  the  depths  of  de- 


10  ALFRED. 

spair.  O,  my  friend  !  shall  I  again  shine  in  arms — 
again  fight  at  the  head  of  my  brave  Englishmen — 
lead  them  on  to  victory  !  Our  friends  shall  now  lift 
their  heads  again. 

Ella.  Yes,  you  have  many  friends,  who  have  long 
been  obliged,  like  their  master,  to  skulk  in  deserts  and 
caves,  and  wander  from  cottage  to  cottage.  When 
they  hear  you  are  alive,  and  in  arms  again,  they  will 
leave  their  fastnesses,  and  flock  to  your  standard. 

Alf.  I  am  impatient  to  meet  them  :  my  people 
shall  be  revenged. 

Gub.  and  Gan.  (throwing  themselves  at  the  feet 
of  Alfred.)  O,  my  lord 

Gan.  We  hope  your  majesty  will  put  us  to  a  mer- 
ciful death.  Indeed,  we  did  not  know  your  majesty's 
grace. 

Gub.  If  your  majesty  could  but  pardon  my  wife's 
tongue  ;  she  means  no  harm,  poor  woman  ! 

Alf.  Pardon  you,  good  people  !  I  not  only  pardon 
you,  but  thank  you.  You  have  afforded  me  protec- 
tion in  my  distress ;  and  if  ever  I  am  seated  again  on 
the  throne  of  England,  my  first  care  shall  be  to  reward 
your  hospitality.  I  am  now  going  to  protect  you. 
Come,  my  faithful  Ella,  to  arms !  to  arms  !  My 
bosom  burns  to  face  once  more  the  haughty  Dane ; 
and  here  I  vow  to  heaven,  that  I  will  never  sheath  the 
sword  against  these  robbers,  till  either  I  lose  my  life 
in  this  just  cause,  or 

Till  dove-like  Peace  return  to  England's  shore, 
And  war  and  slaughter  vex  the  land  no  more. 


11 

ANIMALS, 

AND  THEIR  COUNTRIES. 


O'er  Afric's  sand  the  tawny  Lion  stalks  : 

On  Pilosis'  banks  the  graceful  Pheasant  walks : 

The  lonely  Eagle  builds  on  Kudo's  shore : 

Germania's  forests  feed  the  tusky  Boar : 

From  Alp  to  Alp  the  sprightly  Ibex  bounds  ; 

With  peaceful  lowings  Britain's  isle  resounds : 

The  Lapland  peasant  o'er  the  frozen  meer 

Is  drawn  in  sledges  by  his  swift  Rein-Deer : 

The  River-Horse  and  scaly  Crocodile 

Infest  the  reedy  banks  of  fruitful  Nile  -. 

Dire  Dispas  hiss  o'er  Mauritania's  plain  ; 

And  Seals  and  spouting  Whales  sport  in  the  Northern  Main . 


12 

CANUTE'S  REPROOF 

TO  HIS  COURTIERS. 


Canute,  King  of  England. 

Oswald,  Offa,  Courtiers. 

Scene—  The  Sea-Side,  near  Southampton — The  tide  coming  in. 

Can.  Is  it  true,  my  friends,  what  you  have  so  often 
told  me,  that  I  am  the  greatest  of  monarchs  ? 

Offa.  It  is  true,  my  liege  ;  you  are  the  most  power- 
ful of  all  kings. 

Osiv.  We  are  all  your  slaves ;  we  kiss  the  dust  of 
your  feet. 

Offa.  Not  only  we,  hut  even  the  elements,  are  your 
slaves.  The  land  obeys  }'Ou  from  shore  to  shore  ; 
and  the  sea  obeys  you. 

Can.  Does  the  sea,  with  its  loud  boisterous  waves, 
obey  me  ?  Will  that  terrible  element  be  still  at  my 
bidding  ? 

Offa.  Yes,  the  sea  is  yours ;  it  was  made  to  bear 
your  ships  upon  its  bosom,  and  to  pour  the  treasures 
of  the  world  at  your  royal  feet.  It  is  boisterous  to 
your  enemies,  but  it  knows  you  to  be  its  sovereign. 

Can.  Is  not  the  tide  coming  up  r 

Osw.  Yes,  my  liege  ;  you  may  perceive  the  swell 
already. 

Can.  Bring  me  a  chair  then  ;  set  it  here  upon  the 
sands. 

Offa.  Where  the  tide  is  coming  up,  my  gracious 
lord  ? 

Can.  Yes,  ,-ct  it  just  here. 

Osw.  (aside.)  I  wonder  what  he  is  going  to  do. 


Canute's  reproof.  13 

Offct.  (aside.)  Surely  he  is  not  such  a  fool  as  to 
believe  us. 

Can.  O  mighty  Ocean  !  thou  art  my  subject ;  my 
courtiers  tell  me  so  ;  and  it  is  thy  bounden  duty  to 
obey  me.  Thus,  then,  I  stretch  my  sceptre  over 
thee,  and  command  thee  to  retire.  Roll  back  thy 
swelling  waves,  nor  let  them  presume  to  wet  the  feet 
of  me,  thy  royal  master. 

Osw.  (aside.)  I  believe  the  sea  will  pay  very  little 
regard  to  his  royal  commands. 

Offa.  See  how  fast  the  tide  rises  ! 

Osw.  The  next  wave  will  come  up  to  the  chair. 
It  is  a  folly  to  stay  ;  we  shall  be  covered  with  salt 
water. 

Can.  Well,  does  the  sea  obey  my  commands  ?  If 
it  be  my  subject,  it  is  a  very  rebellious  subject.  See 
how  it  swells,  and  dashes  the  angry  foam  and  salt 
spray  over  my  sacred  person.  Vile  sycophants  !  did 
you  think  I  was  the  dupe  of  your  base  lies  ?  that  I 
believed  your  abject  flatteries  ?  Know,  there  is  only 
one  Being  whom  the  sea  will  obey.  He  is  Sovereign 
of  heaven  and  earth,  King  of  kings,  and  Lord  of  lords. 
It  is  only  he  who  can  say  to  the  ocean,  "  Thus  far 
shalt  thou  go,  but  no  farther,  and  here  shall  thy  proud 
waves  be  stayed."  A  king  is  but  a  man  ;  and  a  man 
is  but  a  worm.  Shall  a  worm  assume  the  power  of 
the  great  God,  and  think  the  elements  will  obey  him  ? 
Take  away  this  crown,  I  will  never  wear  it  more. 
May  kings  learn  to  be  humble  from  my  example,  and 
courtiers  learn  truth  from  your  disgrace  ! 


14 


THE  MASQUE  OF  NATURE. 


Who  is  this  beautiful  Virgin  that  approaches, 
clothed  in  a  robe  of  light  green  ?  She  has  a  garland 
of  flowers  on  her  head,  and  flowers  spring  up  where- 
ever  she  sets  her  foot.  The  snow  which  covered  the 
fields,  and  the  ice  which  was  in  the  rivers,  melt  away 
when  she  breathes  upon  them.  The  young  lambs 
frisk  about  her,  and  the  birds  warble  in  their  little 
throats  to  welcome  her  coming  ;  and  when  they  see 
her,  they  begin  to  choose  their  mates,  and  to  build 
their  nests.  Youths  and  maidens,  have  ye  seen  this 
beautiful  Virgin  ?  If  ye  have,  tell  me  who  is  she, 
and  what  is  her  name. 


Who  is  this  that  cometh  from  the  south,  thinly  clad 
in  a  light  transparent  garment  ?  her  breath  is  hot  and 
sultry ;  she  seeks  the  refreshment  of  the  cool  shade ; 
she  seeks  the  clear  streams,  the  crystal  brooks,  to 
bathe  her  languid  limbs.  The  brooks  and  rivulets  fly 
from  her,  and  arc  dried  up  at  her  approach.  She 
cools  her  parched  lips  with  berries,  and  the  grateful 
acid  of  all  fruits  ;  the  seedy  melon,  the  sharp  apple, 
and  the  red  pulp  of  the  juicy  cherry,  which  are  pour- 
ed out  plentifully  around  her.  The  tanned  hay- 
makers welcome  her  coming  ;  and  the  sheep-shearer, 
who  clips  the  fleeces  off  his  flock  with  his  sounding 
shears.  When  she  cometh  let  me  lie  under  the  thick 
shade  of  a  spreading  beach  tree — let  me  walk  with 
her  in  the  early  morning,  when  the  dew  is  yet  upon 
the  arass — let  me  wander  with  her  in  the  soft  twilight,. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  NATURE.  15 

when  the  shepherd  shuts  his  fold,  and  the  star  of  even- 
ing  appears.  Who  is  she  that  cometh  from  the  south  ? 
\  ouths  and  maidens,  tell  me,  if  you  know,  who  is  she, 
and  what  is  her  name. 


Who  is  he  that  cometh  with  sober  pace,  stealing 
upon  us  unawares  ?  His  garments  are  red  with  the 
blood  of  the  grape,  and  his  temples  are  bound  with 
a  sheaf  of  ripe  wheat.  His  hair  is  thin  and  begins  to 
fall,  and  the  auburn  is  mixed  with  mournful  grey.  He 
shakes  the  brown  nuts  from  the  tree.  He  winds  the 
horn,  and  calls  the  hunters  to  their  sport.  The  gun 
sounds.  The  trembling  partridge  and  the  beautiful 
pheasant  nutter,  bleeding  in  the  air,  and  fall  dead  at 
the  sportsman's  feet.  Who  is  he  that  is  crowned  with 
the  wheat-sheaf?  Youths  and  maidens,  tell  me,  if 
ye  know,  who  is  he  and  what  is  his  name. 


Who  is  he  that  cometh  from  the  north,  clothed  in 
furs  and  warm  wool  ?  He  wraps  his  cloak  close 
about  him.  His  head  is  bald  :  his  beard  is  made  of 
sharp  icicles.  He  loves  the  blazing  fire  high  piled 
upon  the  hearth,  and  the  wine  sparkling  in  the  glass. 
He  binds  skates  to  his  feet,  and  skims  over  the  frozen 
lakes.  His  breath  is  piercing  and  cold,  and  no  little 
flower  dares  to  peep  above  the  surface  of  the  ground 
when   he  is   by.     Whatever  he   touches  turns  to  ice. 

If  he  were  to  stroke  you  with  his  cold  hand,  you 
would  be  quite  stiff  and  dead  like  a  piece  of  marble. 
Youths  and  maidens,  do  you  see  him  f  He  is  coming 
fast  upon  us,  and  soon  he  will  be  here.  Tell  me,  if 
you  know,  who  he  is,  and  what  is  his  name. 


1G 


THINGS  BY  TPIEIR  RIGHT  NAMES. 


Charles.  Papa,  you  grow  very  lazy.  Last  wintej 
you  used  to  tell  us  stories,  and  now  you  never  tell  us 
any;  and  we  are  all  got  round  the  fire  quite  ready  to 
hear  you.  Pray,  dear  papa,  let  us  have  a  very  pret- 
ty one. 

Father.  With  all  my  heart — what  shall  it  be  ? 

C.  A  bloody  murder,  papa  ! 

F.  A  bloody  murder  !  Well  then — Once  upon  a 
time,  some  men,  dressed  all  alike  .  .  . 

C.  With  black  crapes  over  their  faces  ? 

F.  No ;  they  had  steel  caps  on  : — having  crossed 
a  dark  heath,  wound  cautiously  along  the  skirts  of  a 
deep  forest  .... 

C.  They  were  ill-looking  fellows,  I  dare  say. 

F.  I  cannot  say  so ;  on  the  contrary,  they  were 
tall,  personable  men  as  most  one  shall  see  : — leaving 
on  their  right  hand  an  old  ruined  tower  on  the  hill  .  . 

C.  At  midnight,  just  as  the  clock  struck  twelve  ; 
was  it  not,  papa  ? 

F.  No,  really  ;  it  was  on  a  fine  balmy  summer's 
morning  : — and  moved  forwards,  one  behind  another  . . 

C.  As  still  as  death,  creeping  along  under  the 
hedges. 

F.  On  the  contrary — they  walked  remarkably  up- 
right ;  and  so  far  from  endeavouring  to  be  hushed  and 
Still,  they  made  a  loud  noise  as  they  came  along,  with 
several  sorts  of  instruments. 

C.  But,  papa,  they  would  be  found  out  immedi- 
ately. 

F.  They  did  not  seem  to  wish  to  conceal  them- 
selves :  on  the   contrary,   they   gloried  in  what  they 


THINGS  BY  THEIR  RIGHT   NAMES.  17 

were  about. — They  moved  forwards,  1  say,  to  a  large 
plain,  where  stood  a  neat  pretty  village,  which  they 
set  on  fire  .... 

C.  Set  a  village  on  fire  ?  wicked  wretches  ! 

F.  And  while  it  was  burning,  they  murdered — 
twenty  thousand  men. 

C.  O  fie  !  papa  !  You  don't  intend  I  should  believe 
this  ;  I  thought  all  along  you  were  making  up  a  tale, 
as  you  often  do  ;  but  you  shall  not  catch  me  this  time. 
What  !  they  lay  still,  I  suppose,  and  let  these  fellows 
cut  their  throats ! 

F.  No,  truly — they  resisted  as  long  as  they  could. 

C.  How  should  these  men  kill  twenty  thousand 
people,  pray  ? 

F.  Why  not?  the  murderers  were  thirty  thousand. 

C.  O,  now  I  have  found  you  out !  You  mean  a 
Battle. 

F.  Indeed  I  do.  I  do  not  know  of  any  murders 
half  so  bloody. 


>* 


16 
THE  GOOSE  AND  HORSE. 

A  FABLE. 


A  Goose,  who  was  plucking  grass  upon  a  common, 
thought  herself  affronted  by  a  Horse  who  fed  near 
her,  and  in  hissing  accents  thus  addressed  him  :  "  I 
am  certainly  a  more  noble  and  perfect  animal  than 
you,  for  the  whole  range  and  extent  of  your  faculties 
are  confined  to  one  element.  I  can  walk  upon  the 
ground  as  well  as  you  ;  I  have  besides  wings,  with 
which  I  can  raise  myself  in  the  air  ;  and  when  I 
please,  I  can  sport  in  ponds  and  lakes,  and  refresh 
myself  in  the  cool  waters  ;  I  enjoy  the  different  powers 
of  a  bird,  a  fish,  and  a  quadruped." 

The  Horse,  snorting  somewhat  disdainfully,  replied, 
"  It  is  true  you  inhabit  three  elements,  but  you  make 
no  very  distinguished  figure  in  any  one  of  them.  You 
fly,  indeed  ;  but  your  flight  is  so  heavy  and  clumsy, 
that  you  have  no  right  to  put  yourself  on  a  level  with 
the  lark  or  the  swallow.  You  can  swim  on  die  sur- 
face of  the  waters,  but  you  cannot  live  in  them  as 
fishes  do  ;  you  cannot  find  your  food  in  that  element, 
nor  glide  smoothly  along  the  bottom  of  the  waves. 
And  when  you  walk,  or  rather  waddle,  upon  the 
ground,  with  your  broad  feet  and  your  long  neck 
stretched  out,  hissing  at  every  one  who  passes  by,  you 
bring  upon  yourself  the  derision  of  all  beholders.  I 
confess  that  I  am  only  formed  to  move  upon  the 
ground  ;  but  how  graceful  is  my  make  !  how  well 
turned  my  limbs  !  how  highly  finished  my  whole  body  ! 
how  great  my  strength  !  how  astonishing  my  speed  I 
I  had  rather  be  confined  to  one  element,  and  be  ad- 
mired in  that,  than  be  a  Goose  in  all." 


19 


ON  MANUFACTURES. 

Father — Henry. 

Hen.  My  dear  father,  you  observed  the  other  day 
that  we  had  a  great  many  manufactures  in  England. 
Pray  what  is  a  Manufacture  ? 

Fa.  A  Manufacture  is  something  made  by  the  hand 
of  man.  It  is  derived  from  two  Latin  words,  mantis, 
the  hand,  and  facere,  to  make.  Manufactures  are 
therefore  opposed  to  productions,  which  latter  are 
what  the  bounty  of  nature  spontaneously  affords  us ; 
as  fruits,  corn,  marble. 

Hen.  But  there  is  a  great  deal  of  trouble  with  corn  ; 
you  have  often  made  me  take  notice  how  much  pains 
it  costs  the  farmer  to  plough  his  ground,  and  put  the 
seed  in  the  earth,  and  keep  it  clear  from  weeds. 

Fa.  Very  true  ;  but  the  farmer  does  not  make  the 
corn  ;  he  only  prepares  for  it  a  proper  soil  and  situa- 
tion, and  removes  every  hindrance  arising  from  the 
hardness  of  the  ground,  or  the  neighbourhood  of  other 
plants,  which  might  obstruct  the  secret  and  wonderful 
process  of  vegetation ;  but  with  the  vegetation  itself 
lie  has  nothing  to  do.  It  is  not  his  hand  that  draws 
out  the  slender  fibres  of  the  root,  pushes  up  the  green 
stalk,  and  by  degrees  the  spiky  ear  ;  swells  the  grain, 
and  embrowns  it  with  that  rich  tinge  of  tawny  russet, 
which  informs  the  husbandman  it  is  time  to  put  in  his 
sickle  :  all  this  operation  is  performed  without  his  care 
or  even  knowledge. 

Hen.  Now  then  I  understand  ;  corn  is  a  Produc- 
tion, and  bread  a  Manufacture. 

Fa.  Bread  is  certainly,  in  strictness  of  speech,  a 
Manufacture  ;  but  we  do  not  in  general  apply  the 
term  to  any  thing  in  which  the  original  material  is  so 


20  ON  MANUFACTURES. 

little  changed.  If  we  wanted  to  speak  of  bread  phi- 
losophically, we  should  say,  it  is  a  preparation  of  corn. 

Hen.  Is  sugar  a  Manufacture  ? 

Fa.  No,  for  the  same  reason.  Besides  which,  I 
do  not  recollect  the  term  being  applied  to  any  article 
of  food  ;  I  suppose  from  an  idea  that  food  is  of  too 
perishable  a  nature,  and  generally  obtained  by  a  pro- 
cess too  simple  to  deserve  the  name.  We  say,  there- 
fore, sugar-works,  oil-mills,  chocolate-works  ;  we  do 
not  say  a  beer-manufactory,  but  a  brewery ;  but  this 
is  only  a  nicety  of  language,  for  properly  all  those  are 
manufactories,  if  there  is  much  of  art  and  curiosity  in 
the  process. 

Hen.  Do  we  say  a  manufactory  of  pictures  ? 

Fa.  No  ;  but  for  a  different  reason.  A  picture, 
especially  if  it  belong  to  any  of  the  higher  kinds  of 
painting,  is  an  effort  of  genius.  A  picture  cannot  be 
produced  by  any  given  combinations  of  canvass  and 
colour.  It  is  the  hand,  indeed,  that  executes,  but 
the  head  that  works.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  could  not 
have  gone,  when  he  was  engaged  to  paint  a  picture, 
and  hired  workmen,  the  one  to  draw  the  eyes,  another 
the  nose,  a  third  the  mouth ;  the  whole  must  be  the 
painter's  own,  that  particular  painter's,  and  no  other; 
and  no  one  who  has  not  his  ideas  can  do  his  work. 
His  work  is  therefore  nobler,  of  a  higher  species. 

Hen.  Pray  sjve  me  an  instance  of  a  manufacture. 

Fa.  The  making  of  watches  is  a  manufacture  :  the 
silver,  iron,  gold,  or  whatever  else  is  used  in  it,  are 
productions,  the  material  of  the  work  ;  but  it  is  by  the 
wonderful  art  of  man  that  they  are  wrought  into  the 
numberless  wheels  and  springs  of  which  this  compli- 
cated machine  is  composed. 

Hen.  Then  is  there  not  so  much  art  in  making  a 
watch  as  a  picture  ?     Does  not  the  head  work  ? 

Fa.  Certainly,  in  the  original  invention  of  watches. 


©N  MANUFACTURES.  21 

as  much  or  more,  than  in  painting  ;  but  when  once 
invented,  the  art  of  watchmaking  is  capable  of  being 
reduced  to  a  mere  mechanical  labour,  which  may  be 
exercised  by  any  man  of  common  capacity,  according 
to  certain  precise  rules,  when  made  familiar  to  him 
by  practice.     This,  painting  is  not. 

Hen.  But,  my  clear  father,  making  of  books  surely 
requires  a  great  deal  of  thinking  and  study ;  and  yet 
I  remember  the  other  day  at  dinner  a  gentleman  said 
that  Mr.  Pica  had  manufactured  a  large  volume  in 
less  that  a  fortnight. 

Fa.  It  was  meant  to  convey  a  satirical  remark  on 
his  book,  because  it  was  compiled  from  other  authors, 
from  whom  he  had  taken  a  page  in  one  place,  and  a 
page  in  another ;  so  that  it  was  not  produced  by  the 
labour  of  his  brain,  but  of  his  hands.  Thus  you  heard 
your  mother  complain  that  the  London  cream  was 
manufactured ;  which  was  a  pointed  and  concise  way 
of  saying,  that  the  cream  wTas  not  what  it  ought  to  be, 
nor  what  it  pretended  to  be  ;  for  cream,  when  genuine, 
is  a  pure  production  ;  but  when  mixed  up  and  adul- 
terated with  flour  and  isinglass,  and  I  know  not  what, 
it  becomes  a  Manufacture.  It  was  as  much  as  to  say, 
art  has  been  here,  where  it  has  no  business  ;  where 
it  is  not  beneficial,  but  hurtful.  A  great  deal  of  the 
delicacy  of  language  depends  upon  an  accurate  know- 
ledge of  the  specific  meaning  of  single  terms,  and  a 
nice  attention  to  their  relative  propriety. 

Hen.  Have  all  nations  manufactures  ?      * 

Fa.  All  that  are  in  any  degree  cultivated  ;  but  it 
very  often  happens  that  countries  naturally  the  poor- 
est have  manufactures  of  the  greatest  extent  and 
variety. 

Hen.  Why  so .? 

Fa.  For  the  same  reason,  I  apprehend,  that  indi- 
viduals, who  are  rich  without  any  labour  of  their  own, 


22  ON  MANUFACTURES. 

are  seldom  so  industrious  and  active  as  those  who  de- 
pend upon  their  own  exertions :  thus  the  Spaniards, 
who  possess  the  richest  gold  and  silver  mines  in  the 
world,  are  in  want  of  many  conveniences  of  life, 
which  are  enjoyed  in  London  and  Amsterdam. 

Hen.  I  can  comprehend  that ;  I  believe  if  my  uncle 
Ledger  were  to  find  a  gold  mine  under  his  warehouse, 
he  would  soon  shut  up  shop. 

Fa.  I  believe  so.  It  is  not  however  easy  to  estab- 
lish Manufactures  in  a  very  poor  nation  ;  they  require 
science  and  genius  for  their  invention  ;  art  and  con- 
nivance for  their  execution  ;  order,  peace,  and  union, 
for  their  flourishing  ;  they  require  a  number  of  men 
to  combine  together  in  an  undertaking,  and  to  prose- 
cute it  with  the  most  patient  industry ;  they  require, 
therefore,  lawTs  and  government  for  their  protection. 
If  you  see  extensive  Manufactures  in  any  nation,  you 
may  be  sure  it  is  a  civilized  nation ;  you  may  be  sure 
property  is  accurately  ascertained  and  protected. 
They  require  great  expenses  for  their  first  establish- 
ment, costly  machines  for  shortening  manual  labour, 
and  money  and  credit  for  purchasing  materials  from 
distant  countries.  There  is  not  a  single  manufacture 
of  Great  Britain  which  does  not  require,  in  some  part 
or  other  of  its  process,  productions  from  the  different 
parts  of  the  globe  ;  oils,  drugs,  varnish,  quicksilver, 
and  the  like  ;  it  requires,  thereiore,  ships  and  a  friend- 
ly intercourse  with  foreign  nations  to  transport  com- 
modities, and  exchange  productions.  We  could  not 
be  a  manufacturing,  unless  we  were  also  a  commercial 
nation.  They  require  time  to  take  root  in  any  place, 
and  their  excellence  often  depends  upon  some  nice 
and  delicate  circumstance  ;  a  peculiar  quality,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  air  or  water,  or  some  other  local  cir- 
cumstance not  easily  ascertained.  Thus,  I  have 
heard,  that  the  Irish  women  spin  better   than  the  En- 


ON  MANUFACTURES.  25 

glish,  because  the  moister  temperature  of  their  climate 
makes  their  skin  more  soft  and  their  fingers  more 
flexible  :  thus  again  we  cannot  die  so  beautiful  a 
scarlet  as  the  French  can,  though  with  the  same  drugs, 
perhaps  on  account  of  the  superior  purity  of  their  air. 
But  though  so  much  is  necessary  for  the  perfection  of 
the  more  curious  and  complicated  manufactures,  all 
nations  possess  those  which  are  subservient  to  the 
common  conveniences  of  life — the  loom  and  the  forge, 
particularly,  are  of  the  highest  antiquity. 

Hen.  Yes,  I  remember  Hector  bids  Andromache 
return  to  her  apartment,  and  employ  herself  in  weav- 
ing with  her  maids ;  and  I  remember  the  shield  of 
Achilles. 

Fa.  True  ;  and  you  likewise  remember,  in  an 
earlier  period,  the  fine  linen  of  Egypt ;  and,  to  go 
still  higher,  the  working  in  brass  and  iron  is  recorded 
of  Tubal  Cain  before  the  flood. 

Hen.  Which  is  the  most  important,  manufactures 
or  agriculture  ? 

Fa.  Agriculture  is  the  most  necessary,  because  it  is 
first  of  all  necessary  that  man  should  live ;  but  almost 
all  the  enjoyments  and  comforts  of  life  are  produced 
by  manufactures. 

Hen.  Why  are  we  obliged  to  take  so  much  pains 
to  make  ourselves  comfortable  ? 

Fa.  To  exercise  our  industry.  Nature  provides 
the  materials  for  man.  She  pours  out  at  his  feet  a 
profusion  of  gems,  metals,  dies,  plants,  ores,  barks, 
stones,  gums,  wax,  marbles,  woods,  roots,  skins,  earths. 
and  minerals  of  all  kinds !  She  has  likewise  given 
him  tools. 

Hen.  1  did  not  know  that  Nature  gave  us  tools. 

Fa.  No  !  what  are  those  two  instruments  you 
carry  always  about  with  you,  so  strong  and  yet  so 
flexible,  so  nicely  joiuted,  and  branched  out  into  five 


24  ON  MANUFACTURE. 

long,  taper,  unequal  divisions,  any  of  which  may  be 
contracted  or  stretched  out  at  pleasure  ;  the  extremi- 
ties of  which  have  a  feeling  so  wonderfully  delicate, 
and  which  are  strengthened  and  defended  by  horn  ? 

Hen.  The  hands. 

Fa.  Yes.  Man  is  as  much  superior  to  the  brutes 
in  his  outward  form,  by  means  of  the  hand,  as  he  is 
in  his  mind  by  the  gifts  of  reason.  The  trunk  of  the 
elephant  comes  perhaps  the  nearest  to  it  in  its  exqui- 
site feeling  and  flexibility,  (it  is,  indeed,  called  his 
hand  in  Latin,)  and  accordingly  that  animal  has  always 
been  reckoned  the  wisest  of  brutes.  When  nature 
gave  man  the  hand,  she  said  to  him,  "  Exercise  your 
ingenuity  and  work."  As  soon  as  ever  man  rises 
above  the  state  of  a  savage,  he  begins  to  contrive  and 
to  make  things,  in  order  to  improve  his  forlorn  con- 
dition ;  thus  you  may  remember  Thomson  repre- 
sents Industry  coming  to  the  poor  shivering  wretch, 
and  teaching  him  the  arts  of  life. 

Taught  him  to  chip  the  wood,  and  hew  the  stone, 
Till  by  degrees  the  finish'd  fabric  rose: 
Tore  from  his  limbs  the  blood  polluted  fur, 
And  wrapt  them  in  the  woolly  vestment  warm, 
Or  bright  in  glossy  silk  and  flowing  lawn. 

Hen.  It  must  require  a  great  deal  of  knowledge, 
I  suppose,  for  so  many  curious  works ;  what  kind  of 
knowledge  is  most  necessary  r 

Fa.  There  is  not  any  which  may  not  be  occasion- 
ally employed  ;  but  the  two  sciences  which  most  assist 
the  manufacturer  are  mechanics  and  chemistry.  The 
one  for  building  mills,  working  of  mines,  and  in  general 
for  constructing  wheels,  wedges,  pullies,  &cc.  either  to 
shorten  the  labour  of  man,  by  performing  it  in  less  time, 
or  to  perform  what  the  strength  of  man  alone  could  not 
accomplish : — the  other  in  fusing  and  working  ores, 
in  dying  and  bleaching,  and  extracting  the  virtues  of 


ON  MANUFACTURES.  25 

various  substances  for  particular  uses  :  making  of  soap, 
for  instance,  is  a  chemical  operation  ;  and  by  chemis- 
try an  ingenious  gentleman  has  lately  found  out  a  way 
of  bleaching  a  piece  of  cloth  in  eight  and  forty  hours, 
which  by  the  common  process  would  have  taken  up  a 
great  many  weeks. — You  have  heard  of  Sir  Richard 
Arkwright  who  died  lately — 

Hen.  Yes  ;  I  have  heard  he  was  at  first  only  a 
barber,  and  shaved  people  for  a  penny  a  piece. 

Fa.  He  did  so  ;  but  having  a  strong  turn  for  me- 
chanics, he  invented,  or  at  least  perfected,  a  machine, 
by  which  one  pair  of  hands  may  do  the  work  of 
twenty  or  thirty ;  and,  as  in  this  country  every  one  is 
free  to  rise  by  merit,  he  acquired  the  largest  fortune 
in  the  county,  had  a  great  many  hundreds  of  work- 
men under  his  orders,  and  had  leave  given  him  by  the 
king  to  put  Sir  before  his  name. 

Hen.  Did  that  do  him  any  good  ? 

Fa.  It  pleased  him,  I  suppose,  or  he  would  not 
have  accepted  of  it ;  and  you  will  allow,  1  imagine, 
that  if  titles  are  used,  it  does  honour  to  those  who  be- 
stow them,  that  they  are  given  to  such  as  have  made 
themselves  noticed  for  something  useful. — Arkwright 
used  to  say,  that  if  he  had  time  to  perfect  his  inven- 
tions, he  would  put  a  fleece  of  wool  into  a  box,  and 
it  should  come  out  broad-cloth. 

Hen.  What  did  he  mean  by  that ;  was  there  any 
fairy  in  the  box  to  turn  it  into  broad-cloth  with  her 
wand  ? 

Fa.  He  was  assisted  by  the  only  fairies  that  ever 
had  the  power  of  transformation,  Art  and  Industry  : 
he  meant  that  he  would  contrive  so  many  machines, 
wheel  within  wheel,  that  the  combing,  carding,  and 
other  various  operations,  should  be  performed  by 
mechanism,  almost  without  the  hand  of  man. 

Hen.  I  think,  if  I  had  not  been  told,  I  should  never 
3 


26  ON  MANUFACTURES. 

have  been  able  to  guess  that  my  coat  came  off  the 
back  of  a  sheep. 

Fa.  You  hardly  would  ;  but  there  are  manufactures 
in  which  the  material  is  much  more  changed  than  in 
woollen  cloth.  What  can  be  meaner  in  appearance 
than  sand  and  ashes  ?  Would  you  imagine  that  any 
thing  beautiful  could  be  made  out  of  such  a  mixture  r 
Yet  the  furnace  transforms  this  into  that  transparent 
crystal  we  call  glass,  than  which  nothing  is  more 
sparkling,  more  brilliant,  more  full  of  lustre.  It  dirows 
about  the  rays  of  light  as  if  it  had  life  and  motion. 

Hen.  There  is  a  glass-shop  in  London,  which  al- 
ways puts  me  in  mind  of  Aladdin's  palace. 

Fa.  It  is  certain  that  if  a  person  ignorant  of  the 
manufacture  were  to  see  one  of  our  capital  shops,  he 
would  think  all  the  treasures  of  Golconda  were  cen- 
tred there,  and  that  every  drop  of  cut  glass  was 
worth  a  prince's  ransom. — Again,  who  would  suppose 
on  seeing  the  green  stalks  of  a  plant,  that  it  could  be 
formed  into  a  texture  so  smooth,  so  snowy-white,  so 
firm,  and  yet  so  flexible,  as  to  wrap  round  the  limbs 
and  adapt  itself  to  every  movement  of  the  body  ?  Who 
would  guess  this  fibrous  stalk  could  be  made  to  float 
in  such  light  undulating  folds  as  in  our  lawns  and 
cambrics  ?  not  less  fine,  we  presume,  than  that  tran- 
sparent drapery  which  the  Romans  called  ventus  tex- 
tilis,  woven  wind. 

Hen.  I  wonder  how  any  body  can  spin  such  fine 
thread. 

Fa.  Their  fingers  must  have  the  touch  of  a  spider, 
that,  as  Pope  says, 

Feels  at  each  thread,  and  lives  along  the  line. 

And  indeed  you  recollect  that  Arachne  was  a  spin- 
ster. Lace  is  a  still  finer  production  from  flax,  and 
is  one  of  those  in  which  the  original   material  is  most 


ON  MANUFACTURES.  27 

improved.  How  many  times  the  price  of  a  pound  of 
flax  do  you  think  that  flax  will  be  worth  when  made 
into  lace  ? 

Hen.  A  great  many  times,  I  suppose. 

Fa.  Flax  at  the  best  hand  is  bought  at  fourteen 
pence  a  pound.  They  make  lace  at  Valenciennes, 
in  French  Flanders,  of  ten  guineas  a  yard,  I  believe 
indeed  higher,  but  we  will  say  ten  guineas  ;  this  yard 
of  lace  will  weigh  probably  not  more  than  half  an 
ounce  :  what  is  the  value  of  half  an  ounce  of  flax  ? 
reckon  it. 

Hen.  It  comes  to  one  farthing  and  three  quarters 
of  a  farthing. 

Fa.  Right;  now  tell  me  how  many  times  the  ori- 
ginal value  the  lace  is  worth. 

Hen.  Prodigious  !  it  is  worth  57G0  times  as  much 
as  the  flax  it  is  made  of. 

Fa.  Yet  there  is  another  material  that  is  still  more 
improveable  than  flax. 

Hen.  What  can  that  be  ? 

Fa.  Iron.  The  price  of  pig-iron  is  ten  shillings  a 
hundred  weight ;  this  is  not  quite  one  farthing  for  two 
ounces;  now  you  have  seen  some  of  the  beautiful  cut 
steel  that  looks  like  diamonds. 

Hen.  Yes,  I  have  seen  buckles,  and  pins,  and 
watch-chains. 

Fa.  Then  you  can  form  an  idea  of  it ;  but  you  have 
seen  only  the  most  common  sorts.  There  was  a  chain 
made  at  Woodstock,  in  Oxfordshire,  and  sent  to 
France,  which  weighed  only  two  ounces,  and  cost 
170/.  Calculate  how  many  times  that  had  increased 
its  value. 

Hen.  Amazing  !  It  was  worth  163,600  times  the 
value  of  the  iron  it  was  made  of. 

Fa.  That  is  what  manufactures  can  do ;  here  man 
is  a  kind  of  creator,   and  like  the   great  Creator,  he 


28  ON  MANUFACTURES. 

may  please  himself  with  his  work,  and  say  it  is  good. 
In  the  last  mentioned  manufacture,  too,  that  of  steel, 
the  English  have  the  honour  of  excelling  all  the  world. 

Hen.  What  are  the  chief  manufactures  of  England  ? 

Fa.  We  have  at  present  a  greater  variety  than  I  can 
pretend  to  enumerate,  hut  our  staple  manufacture  is 
woollen  cloth.  England  abounds  in  fine  pastures  and 
extensive  downs,  which  feed  great  numbers  of  sheep  ; 
hence  our  wool  has  always  been  a  valuable  article  of 
trade  ;  but  we  did  not  always  know  how  to  work  it. 
We  used  to  sell  it  to  the  Flemish  or  Lombards,  who 
wrought  it  into  cloth  ;  till  in  the  year  1 326,  Edward 
the  Third  invited  some  Flemish  weavers  over  to  teach 
us  the  art ;  but  there  was  not  much  made  in  England 
till  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Seventh.  Manchester  and 
Birmingham  are  towns  which  have  arisen  to  great 
consequence  from  small  beginnings,  almost  within  the 
memory  of  old  men  now  living ;  the  first  for  cotton 
and  muslin  goods,  the  second  for  cutlery  and  hard 
ware,  in  which  we  at  this  moment  excel  all  Europe. 
Of  late  years,  too,  carpets,  beautiful  as  fine  tapestry, 
have  been  fabricated  in  this  country.  Our  clocks  and 
watches  are  greatly  esteemed.  The  earthen-ware 
plates  and  dishes,  which  we  all  use  in  common,  and 
the  elegant  set  for  the  tea-table,  ornamented  with 
musical  instruments,  which  we  admired  in  our  visit 
yesterday,  belong  to  a  very  extensive  manufactory, 
the  seat  of  which  is  at  Burslem  in  Staffordshire.  The 
principal  potteries  there  belong  to  one  person,  an  ex- 
cellent chymist,  and  a  man  of  great  taste ;  he,  in  con- 
junction with  another  man  of  taste  who  is  since  dead, 
has  made  our  clay  more  valuable  than  the  finest  por- 
celain of  China.  He  has  moulded  it  into  all  the  forms 
of  grace  and  beauty  that  are  to  be  met  with  in  the 
precious  remains  of  the  Greek  and  Etruscan  artists. 
In  the  more  common  articles  he  has  penciled  it  with 


ON  MANUFACTURES.  29 

the  most  elegant  designs,  shaped  it  into  shelves  and 
leaves,  twisted  it  into  wicker-work,  and  trailed  the 
ductile  foliage  round  tne  light  basket.  He  has  filled 
our  cabinets  and  chimney-pieces  with  urns,  lamps, 
and  vases,  on  which  are  lightly  traced,  with  the  purest 
simplicity,  the  fine  forms  and  floating  draperies  ot 
Herculaneum.  In  short,  he  has  given  to  our  houses 
a  classic  air,  and  has  made  every  saloon  and  every 
dining-room  schools  of  taste.  I  should  add  that  there 
is  a  great  demand  abroad  for  this  elegant  manufac- 
ture. The  Empress  of  Russia  has  had  some  mag- 
nificent services  of  it ;  and  the  other  day  one  was  sent 
to  the  King  of  Spain,  intended  as  a  present  from  him 
to  the  Archbishop  of  Toledo,  which  cost  a  thousand 
pounds.  Some  morning  you  shall  go  through  the 
rooms  in  the  London  warehouse. 

Hen.  I  should  like  very  much  to  see  manufactures, 
now  you  have  told  me  such  curious  things  about  them. 

Fa.  You  will  do  well !  there  is  much  more  en- 
tertainment to  a  cultivated  mind  in  seeing  a  pin  made, 
than  in  many  a  fashionable  diversion  which  young 
people  half  ruin  themselves  to  attend.  In  the  mean 
time  I  will  give  you  some  account  of  one  of  the  most 
elegant  of  them,  which  is  paper. 

Hen.     Pray  do,  my  dear  father. 

Fa.  It  shall  be  left  for  another  evening,  however, 
for  it  is  now  late.     Good  night. 


3* 


30 


THE  FLYING  FISH. 


The  Flying  Fish,  says  the  fable,  had  originally  no 
wings,  but  being  of  an  ambitious  and  discontented 
temper,  she  repined  at  being  always  confined  to  the 
waters,  and  wished  to  soar  in  the  air.  "  If  I  could 
fly  like  the  birds,"  said  she,  "  I  should  not  only  see 
more  of  the  beauties  of  nature,  but  I  should  be  able 
to  escape  from  those  fish  which  are  continually  pursu- 
ing me,  and  which  render  my  life  miserable."  She 
therefore  petitioned  Jupiter  for  a  pair  of  wings:  and 
immediately  she  perceived  her  fins  to  expand.  They 
suddenly  grew  to  the  length  of  her  whole  body,  and  be- 
came at  the  same  time  so  strong  as  to  do  the  office  of  a 
pinion.  She  was  at  first  much  pleased  with  her  new 
powers,  and  looked  with  an  air  of  disdain  on  all  her 
former  companions  ;  but  she  soon  perceived  herself 
exposed  to  new  dangers.  When  flying  in  the  air, 
she  was  incessantly  pursued  by  the  Tropic  bird  and 
the  Albatross  ;  and  when  for  safety  she  dropped  into 
the  water,  she  was  so  fatigued  with  her  flight,  that  she 
was  less  able  than  ever  to  escape  from  her  old  ene- 
mies, the  fish.  Finding  herself  more  unhappy  than 
before,  she  now  begged  of  Jupiter  to  reeal  his  present ; 
but  Jupiter  said  to  her,  "  when  I  gave  you  your  wings, 
[  well  knew  they  would  prove  a  curse ;  but  your 
proud  and  restless  disposition  deserved  this  disappoint- 
ment. Now,  therefore,  what  you  begged  as  a  favour, 
keep  as  a  punishment." 


31 


A  LESSON  IN 

THE  ART  OF  DISTINGUISHING. 


F.  Come  hither,  Charles ;  what  is  that  you  see 
grazing  in  the  meadow  before  you  ? 

C.  It  is  a  horse. 

F.  Whose  horse  is  it  ? 

C.  I  do  not  know ;  I  never  saw  it  before. 

F.  How  do  you  know  it  is  a  horse,  if  you  never 
saw  it  before  ? 

C.  Because  it  is  like  other  horses. 

F.  Are  all  horses  alike  then  .? 

C.  Yes. 

F.  If  they  are  all  alike,  how  do  you  know  one  horse 
from  another  ? 

C.  They  are  not  quite  alike. 

F.  But  they  are  so  much  alike,  that  you  can  easily 
distinguish  a  horse  from  a  cow  ? 

C.  Yes,  indeed. 

jP.  Or  from  a  cabbage  ? 

C.  A  horse  from  a  cabbage  !  yes,  surely  I  can. 

.F.  Very  well ;  then  let  us  see  if  you  can  tell  how 
a  horse  differs  from  a  cabbage  ? 

C.  Very  easily ;  a  horse  is  alive. 

F.  True  ;  and  how  is  every  thing  called,  which  is 
alive  ? 

C.  I  believe  all  things  that  are  alive  are  called 
animals. 

F.  Right ;  but  can  you  tell  me  what  a  horse  and  a 
cabbage  are  alike  in  ? 

C.  Nothing,  I  believe. 


S2  ART  OF  DISTINGUISHING. 

F.  Yes,  there  is  one  thing  in  which  the  slenderest 
moss  that  grows  upon  the  wall  is  like  the  greatest  man 
or  the  highest  angel. 

C.  Because  God  made  them. 

F.  Yes  ;  and  how  do  you  call  every  thing  that  is 
made  ? 

C.  A  creature. 

F.  A  horse  then  is  a  creature,  but  a  living  crea- 
ture ;  that  is  to  say,  an  animal. 

C.  And  a  cabbage  is  a  dead  creature  ;  that  is  the 
difference. 

F.  Not  so,  neither ;  nothing  is  dead  that  has  never 
been  alive. 

C.  What  must  I  call  it  then,  if  it  is  neither  dead 
nor  alive  ? 

F.  An  inanimate  creature ;  there  is  the  animate 
and  inanimate  creation.  Plants,  stones,  metals,  are  of 
the  latter  class  ;  horses  belong  to  the  former. 

C.  But  the  gardener  told  me  some  of  my  cabbages 
were  dead,  and  some  were  alive. 

F.  Very  true.  Plants  have  a  vegetative  life,  a  prin- 
ciple of  growth  and  decay ;  this  is  common  to  them 
with  all  organized  bodies  ;  but  they  have  not  sensa- 
tion, at  least  we  do  not  know  they  have — they  have 
not  life,  therefore,  in  the  sense  in  which  animals  en- 
joyit. 

C.  A  horse  is  called  an  animal,  then. 

F.  Yes ;  but  a  salmon  is  an  animal,  and  so  is  a 
sparrow  ;  how  will  you  distinguish  a  horse  from  these  ? 

C.  A  salmon  lives  in  the  water,  and  swims  ;  a 
sparrow  flies,  and  lives  in  the  air. 

F.  I  think  a  salmon  could  not  walk  upon  the  ground, 
even  if  it  could  live  out  of  the  water. 

C.  No,  indeed  ;  it  has  no  legs. 

F.  And  a  bird  would  not  gallop  like  a  horse. 

C.  No  ;  it  would  hop  away  upon  its  two  slender 
legs. 


ART  OF  DISTINGUISHING.  33 

F.  How  many  legs  has  a  horse  ? 

C.  Four. 

F.  And  an  ox  ? 

C.  Four  likewise. 

F.  And  a  camel  ? 

C.  Four  still. 

F.  Do  you  know  any  animals  which  live  upon  the 
earth  that  have  not  four  legs  ? 

C.  I  think  not ;  they  have  all  four  legs ;  except 
worms  and  insects,  and  such  things. 

F.  You  remember,  I  suppose,  what  an  animal  is 
called  that  has  four  legs  ;  you  have  it  in  your  little 
books. 

C.  A  quadruped. 

F.  A  horse  then  is  a  quadruped :  by  this  we  dis- 
tinguish him  from  the  birds,  fishes,  and  insects. 

C.  And  from  men. 

F.  True  ;  but  if  you  had  been  talking  about  birds, 
you  would  not  have  found  it  so  easy  to  distinguish 
them. 

C.  How  so  !  a  man  is  not  at  all  like  a  bird. 

F.  Yet  an  ancient  philosopher  could  find  no  way 
to  distinguish  them,  but  by  calling  man  a  two-legged 
animal  without  feathers. 

C.  I  think  he  was  very  silly ;  they  are  not  at  all 
alike,  though  they  have  both  two  legs. 

F.  Another  ancient  philosopher,  called  Diogenes, 
was  of  your  opinion.  He  stript  a  cock  of  his  feathers, 
and  turned  him  into  the  school  where  Plato, — that  was 
his  name, — was  teaching,  and  said,  Here  is  Plato's 
man  for  you. 

C.  I  wish  I  had  been  there,  I  should  have  laughed 
very  much. 

F.  Probably.  Before  we  laugh  at  others,  how- 
ever, let  us  see  what  we  can  do  ourselves.  We  have 
not  yet  found  any  thing  which  will  distinguish  a  horse 
from  an  elephant,  or  from  a  Norway  rat. 


34  ART  OF  DISTINGUISHING. 

C.  O,  that  is  easy  enough.  An  elephant  is  very 
large,  and  a  rat  is  very  small  ;  a  horse  is  neither  large 
nor  small. 

F.  Before  we  go  any  further,  look  what  is  settled 
on  the  skirt  of  your  coat. 

C.  It  is  a  butterfly ;  what  a  prodigious  large  one  ; 
I  never  saw  such  a  one  before. 

F.  Is  it  larger  than  a  rat,  think  you  ? 

C.  No,  that  it  is  not. 

F.  Yet  you  called  the  butterfly  large,  and  you 
called  the  rat  small. 

C.  It  is  very  large  for  a  butterfly. 

F.  It  is  so.  You  see,  therefore,  that  large  and 
small  are  relative  terms. 

C.  I  do  not  well  understand  that  phrase. 

F.  It  means  that  they  have  no  precise  and  deter- 
minate signification  in  themselves,  but  are  applied  dif- 
ferently, according  to  the  other  ideas  which  you  join 
with  them,  and  the  different  positions  in  which  you 
view  them.  This  butterfly,  therefore,  is  large,  com- 
pared with  those  of  its  own  species,  and  small,  com- 
pared with  many  other  species  of  animals.  Besides, 
there  is  no  circumstance  which  varies  more  than  the 
size  of  individuals.  If  you  were  to  give  an  idea  of  a 
horse  from  its  size,  you  would  certainly  say  it  was 
much  bigger  than  a  dog ;  yet  if  you  take  the  smallest 
Shetland  horse,  and  the  largest  Irish  grey-hound,  you 
will  find  them  very  much  upon  a  par :  size,  therefore, 
is  not  a  circumstance  by  which  you  can  accurately 
distinguish  one  animal  from  another ;  nor  yet  his 
colour. 

C.  No  ;  there  are  black  horses,  and  bay,  and  white, 
and  pied. 

F.  But  you  have  not  seen  that  variety  of  colours  in 
a  hare,  for  instance. 

C.  No,  a  hare  is  always  brown. 


ART  OF  DISTINGUISHING.  35 

F.  Yet  if  you  were  to  depend  upon  that  circum- 
stance, you  would  not  convey  the  idea  of  a  hare  to  a 
mountaineer,  or  an  inhabitant  of  Siberia  ;  for  he  sees 
them  white  as  snow.  We  must,  therefore,  find  out 
some  circumstances  that  do  not  change  like  size  and 
colour,  and  I  may  add  shape,  though  they  are  not  so 
obvious,  nor  perhaps  so  striking.  Look  at  the  feet  of 
quadrupeds  ;  are  they  all  alike  ? 

C.  No ;  some  have  long  taper  claws,  and  some 
have  thick  clumsy  feet  without  claws. 

F.  The  thick  feet  are  horny  ;  are  they  not  ? 

C.  Yes,  I  recollect  they  are  called  hoofs. 

F.  And  the  feet  that  are  not  covered  with  horn, 
and  are  divided  into  claws,  are  called  digitated,  from 
digitus,  a  finger ;  because  they  are  parted  like  fingers. 
Here,  then,  we  have  one  grand  division  of  quadrupeds 
into  hoofed  and  digitated.  Of  which  division  is  the 
horse  ? 

C.  He  is  hoofed. 

F.  There  are  a  great  many  different  kinds  of 
horses ;  did  you  ever  know  one  that  wTas  not  hoofed  ? 

C.  No,  never. 

F.  Do  you  think  we  run  any  hazard  of  a  stranger 
telling  us,  Sir,  horses  are  hoofed  indeed  in  your  coun- 
try, bui  in  mine,  which  is  in  a  different  climate,  and 
where  we  feed  them  differently,  they  have  claws  ? 

C.  No,  I  dare  say  not. 

F.  Then  we  have  got  something  to  our  purpose ; 
a  circumstance  easily  marked,  which  always  belongs 
to  the  animal,  under  every  variation  of  situation  or 
treatment.  But  an  ox  is  hoofed,  and  so  is  a  sheep  ; 
we  must  distinguish  still  farther.  You  have  often 
stood  by,  I  suppose,  while  the  smith  was  shoeing  a 
horse.     What  kind  of  a  hoof  has  he  ? 

C.  It  is  round,  and  all  in  one  piece. 

F.  And  is  that  of  an  ox  so  ? 


36  ART  OF  DISTINGUISHING. 

C.  No,  it  is  divided. 

F.  A  horse,  then,  is  not  only  hoofed,  but  whole 
hoofed.  Now  how  many  quadrupeds  do  you  think 
there  are  in  the  world  that  are  whole  hoofed  ? 

C.  Indeed  I  do  not  know. 

F.  There  are,  among  all  animals  that  we  are  ac- 
quainted with,  either  in  this  country  or  in  any  other, 
only  the  horse,  the  ass,  and  the  zebra,  which  is  a  spe- 
cie^ of  will  ass.  Now,  therefore,  you  see  we  have 
nearly  accomplished  our  purpose  ;  we  have  only  to 
distinguish  him  from  the  ass. 

C.  That  is  easily  done,  I  believe  ;  I  should  be 
sorry  if  any  body  could  mistake  my  little  horse  for  an 
ass. 

F.  It  is  not  so  easy,  however,  as  you  imagine ;  the 
eye  readily  distinguishes  them  by  the  air  and  general 
appearance,  but  naturalists  have  been  rather  puzzled 
to  fix  upon  any  specific  difference,  which  may  serve 
the  purpose  of  a  definition.  Some  have,  therefore, 
fixed  upon  the  ears,  others  on  the  mane  and  tail. 
What  kind  of  ears  has  an  ass  ? 

C.  O,  very  long  clumsy  ears.  Asses'  ears  are 
always  laughed  at. 

F.  And  the  horse  ? 

C.  The  horse  has  small  ears,  nicely  turned,  and 
upright. 

F.  And  the  mane,  is  there  no  difference  there  ? 

C.  The  horse  has  a  fine  long  flowing  mane  ;  the 
ass  has  hardly  any. 

F.  And  the  tail ;  is  it  not  fuller  of  hair  in  the  horse 
than  in  the  ass  ? 

C.  Yes  ;  the  ass  has  only  a  few  long  hairs  at  the 
end  of  his  tail  ;  but  the  horse  has  a  long  bushy  tail, 
when  it  is  not  cut. 

F.  Which,  by  the  way,  it  is  pity  it  ever  should. 
Now,  then,  observe  what  particulars  we  have  got.   A 


ART  OF  DISTINGUISHING.  37 

horse  is  an  animal  of  the  quadruped  kind,  whole-hoofed, 
with  short  erect  ears,  a  flowing  mane,  and  a  tail  cov- 
ered in  every  part  with  long  hairs.  Now  is  there 
any  other  animal,  think  you,  in  the  world,  that  answers 
these  particulars  ? 

C.  I  do  not  know ;  this  does  not  tell  us  a  great 
deal  about  him. 

F.  And  yet  it  tells  us  enough  to  distinguish  him 
from  all  the  different  tribes  of  the  creation  which  we 
are  acquainted  with  in  any  part  of  the  earth.  Do  you 
know  now  what  we  have  been  making  ? 

C.  What? 

F.  A  Definition.  It  is  the  business  of  a  defini- 
tion to  distinguish  precisely  the  thing  defined  from 
every  other  thing,  and  to  do  it  in  as  few  terms  as  pos- 
sible. Its  object  is  to  separate  the  subject  of  defini- 
tion, first,  from  those  with  which  it  has  only  a  general 
resemblance ;  then,  from  those  which  agree  with  it 
in  a  greater  variety  of  particulars  ;  and  so  on,  till  by 
constantly  throwing  out  all  which  have  not  the  qualities 
we  have  taken  notice  of,  we  come  at  length  to  the 
individual  or  the  species  we  wish  to  ascertain.  It  is 
a  kind  of  chase,  and  resembles  the  manner  of  hunting 
in  some  countries,  where  they  first  enclose  a  very 
large  circle  with  their  dogs,  nets,  and  horses ;  and 
then,  by  degrees,  draw  their  toils  closer  and  closer, 
driving  their  game  before  them  till  it  is  at  length 
brought  into  so  narrow  a  compass,  that  the  sportsmen 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  knock  down  their  prey. 

C.  Just  as  we  have  been  hunting  this  horse,  till  at 
last  we  held  him  fast  by  his  ears  and  his  tail. 

F.  I  should  observe  to  you,  that  in  the  definition 
naturalists  give  of  a  horse,  it  is  generally  mentioned 
that  he  has  six  cutting  teeth  in  each  jaw  ;  because 
this  circumstance  of  the  teeth  has  been  found  a  very 
convenient  one  for  characterizing  large  classes:  but 
4 


oS  ART  OF  DISTINGUISHING. 

as  it  is  not  absolutely  necessary  here,  I  have  omitted 
it ;  a  definition  being  the  more  perfect  the  fewer  par- 
ticulars you  make  use  of,  provided  you  can  say  with 
certainty  from  those  particulars,  The  object  so  char- 
acterized must  be  this,  and  no  other  whatever. 

C.  But,  papa,  if  I  had  never  seen  a  horse,  I  should 
not  know  what  kind  of  animal  it  was  by  this  definition, 

F.  Let  us  hear,  then,  how  you  would  give  me  an 
idea  of  a  horse. 

C.  I  would  say  it  was  a  fine  large  prancing  crea- 
ture, with  slender  legs  and  an  arched  neck,  and  a 
sleek  smooth  skin,  and  a  tail  that  sweeps  the  ground, 
and  that  he  snorts  and  neighs  very  loud,  and  tosses  his 
head,  and  runs  as  swift  as  the  wind. 

F.  I  think  you  learned  some  verses  upon  the  horse 
in  your  last  lesson  :  repeat  them. 

C.   The  wanton  courser  thus  with  reins  unbound 
Breaks  from  his  stall,  and  beats  the  trembling  ground  ; 
Pamper'd  and  proud,  he  seeks  the  wonted  tides, 
And  laves,  in  height  of  blood,  his  shining  sides  j 
His  head,  now  freed,  he  tosses  to  the  skies ; 
His  mane  dishevelTd  o'er  his  shoulders  flies  ; 
He  snuffs  the  females  in  the  distant  plain, 
And  springs,  exulting,  to  his  fields  again. 

pope's  homer. 

F.  You  have  said  very  well ;  but  this  is  not  a  Defi- 
nition, it  is  a  Description. 

C.  What  is  the  difference  ? 

.F.  A  description  is  intended  to  give  you  a  lively 
picture  of  an  object,  as  if  you  saw  it ;  it  ought  to  be 
very  full.  A  definition  gives  no  picture  to  those  who 
have  not  seen  it ;  it  rather  tells  you  what  its  subject  is 
not,  than  what  it  is,  by  giving  you  such  clear  specific 
marks,  that  it  shall  not  be  possible  to  confound  it  with 
any  thing  else1  ;  and  hence  it  is  of  the  greatest  use  in 
throwing  things  into  classes.  We  have  a  great  m;  rry 
beautiful  descriptions  from  ancient  authors  so  loosed 


ART  OF  DISTINGUISHING.  39 

worded  that  we  cannot  certainly  tell  what  animals  are 
meant  by  them  ;  whereas  if  they  had  given  us  defini- 
tions, three  lines  would  have  ascertained  their  meaning. 

C.  I  like  a  description  best,  papa. 

F.  Perhaps  so ;  I  believe  1  should  have  done  the 
same  at  your  age.  Remember,  however,  that  nothing 
is  more  useful  than  to  learn  to  form  ideas  with  pre- 
cision, and  to  express  them  with  accuracy  :  I  have 
not  given  you  a  definition  to  teach  you  what  a  horse 
is,  but  to  teach  you  to  think. 


40 


THE  PHENIX  AND  DOVE. 


A  Phenix,  who  had  long  inhabited  the  solitary 
deserts  of  Arabia,  once  flew  so  near  the  habitations  of 
men  as  to  meet  with  a  tame  Dove,  who  was  sitting  on 
her  nest,  with  wings  expanded,  fondly  brooding  over 
her  young  ones,  while  she  expected  her  mate,  who 
was  foraging  abroad  to  procure  them  food.  The 
Phenix,  with  a  kind  of  insulting  compassion,  said  to 
her,  "  Poor  bird,  how  much  I  pity  thee  !  confined  to 
a  single  spot,  and  sunk  in  domestic  cares  ;  thou  art  con- 
tinually employed  either  in  laying  eggs  or  in  providing 
for  thy  brood  ;  and  thou  exhaustest  thy  life  and  strength 
in  perpetuating  a  feeble  and  defenceless  race.  As 
to  myself,  I  live  exempt  from  toil,  care,  and  misfor- 
tune. I  feed  upon  nothing  less  precious  than  rich 
gums  and  spices  ;  I  fly  through  the  trackless  regions 
of  the  air,  and  when  I  am  seen  by  men,  am  gazed  at 
with  curiosity  and  astonishment  ;  I  have  no  one  to 
control  my  range,  no  one  to  provide  for  ;  and  when 
t  have  fulfilled  my  five  centuries  of  life,  and  seen  the 
revolutions  of  ages,  I  rather  vanish  than  die,  and  a 
successor,  without  my  care,  springs  up  from  my  ashes. 
I  am  an  image  of  the  great  sun  whom  I  adore ;  and 
glory  in  being,  like  him,  single  and  alone,  and  having 
no  likeness." 

Tiie  Dove  replied,  "  O  Phenix,  I  pity  thee  much 
more  than  thou  affectest  to  pity  me  !  What  pleasure 
canst  thou  enjoy,  who  livest  forlorn  and  solitary  in  a 
trackless  and  unpeopled  desert ;  who  hast  no  mate 
to  caress  thee,  no  young  ones  to  excite  thy  tenderness 
and  reward  thy  cares,  no  kindred,  no  society  amongst 


THE  PHENIX  AND  DOVE.  41 

thy  fellows.  Not  long  life  only,  but  immortality  itself 
would  be  a  curse,  if  it  were  to  be  bestowed  on  such 
uncomfortable  terms.  For  my  part,  I  know  that  my 
life  will  be  short,  and  therefore  I  employ  it  in  raising 
a  numerous  posterity,  and  in  opening  my  heart  to  all 
the  sweets  of  domestic  happiness.  I  am  beloved  by 
my  partner  ;  I  am  dear  to  man  ;  and  shall  leave  marks 
behind  me  that  I  have  lived.  As  to  the  sun,  to  whom 
thou  hast  presumed  to  compare  thyself,  that  glorious 
being  is  so  totally  different  from,  and  so  infinitely  su- 
perior to,  all  the  creatures  upon  earth,  that  it  does  not 
become  us  to  liken  ourselves  to  him,  or  to  determine 
upon  the  manner  of  his  existence.  One  obvious  dif- 
ference, however,  thou  mayest  remark ;  that  the  sun, 
though  alone,  by  his  prolific  heat,  produces  all  things* 
and  though  he  shines  so  high  above  our  heads,  gives 
us  reason  every  moment  to  bless  his  beams ;  whereas 
diou,  swelling  with  thy  imaginary  greatness,  dreamest 
away  a  long  period  of  existence,  equally  void  of  com- 
fort and  usefulness. 


4* 


42 


THE  MANUFACTURE  OF  PAPER, 


-F.  I  will  now,  as  I  promised,  give  you  an  account 
of  the  elegant  and  useful  manufacture  of  Paper,  the 
basis  of  which  is  itself  a  manufacture.  This  delicate 
and  beautiful  substance  is  made  from  the  meanest  and 
most  disgusting  materials,  from  old  rags,  which  have 
passed  from  one  poor  person  to  another,  and  at  length 
have  perhaps  dropped  in  tatters  from  the  child  of  the 
beggar.  These  are  carefully  picked  up  from  dung- 
hills, or  bought  from  servants  by  Jews,  who  make  it 
their  business  to  go  about  and  collect  them.  They 
sell  them  to  the  rag-merchant,  who  gives  from  two- 
pence to  four-pence  a  pound,  according  to  their  qual- 
ity ;  and  he,  when  he  has  got  a  sufficient  quantity, 
disposes  of  them  to  the  owner  of  the  paper-mill.  He 
gives  them  first  to  women  to  sort  and  pick,  agreeably 
to  their  different  degrees  of  fineness  :  they  also  with 
a  knife  cut  out  carefully  all  the  seams,  which  they 
throw  into  a  basket  for  other  purposes  ;  they  then  put 
them  into  the  dusting  engine,  a  large  circular  wire 
sieve,  from  whence  they  receive  some  degree  of 
cleansing.  The  rags  are  then  conveyed  to  the  mill. 
Here  they  were  formerly  beat  to  pieces  with  vast 
hammers,  which  rose  and  fell  continually  with  a  most 
tremendous  noise,  thai  was  heard  from  a  great  distance. 
But  now  they  put  the  rags  into  a  large  trough  or  cis- 
tern, into  which  a  pipe  of  clear  spring  water  is  con- 
stantly flowing.  In  this  cistern  is  placed  a  cylinder, 
about  two  feet  long,  set  thick  round  with  rows  of  iron 
spikes,  standing  as  near  as  they  can  to  one  another 
without  touching.     At  the  bottom  of  the  trough  there 


THE  MANUFACTURE  OF  PAPER.  43 

are  corresponding  rows  of  spikes.  The  cylinder  is 
made  to  whirl  round  with  inconceivable  rapidity,  and 
with  these  iron  teeth  rends  and  tears  the  cloth  in 
every  possible  direction  ;  till,  by  the  assistance  of  the 
water,  which  continually  flows  through  the  cistern,  it 
is  thoroughly  masticated,  and  reduced  to  a  fine  pulp  ; 
and  by  the  same  process  all  its  impurities  are  cleansed 
away,  and  it  is  restored  to  its  original  whiteness.  This 
process  takes  about  six  hours.  To  improve  the  col- 
on;- they  then  put  in  a  little  smalt,  which  gives  it  a 
blueish  cast,  which  all  paper  has  more  or  less  :  the 
French  paper  has  less  of  it  than  ours.  This  fine 
pulp  is  next  put  into  a  copper  of  warm  water.  It  is 
the  substance  of  paper,  but  the  form  must  now  be 
given  it :  for  this  purpose  they  use  a  mould.  It  is 
made  of  wire,  strong  one  way,  and  crossed  with  finer. 
This  mould  they  just  dip  horizontally  into  the  copper, 
and  take  it  out  again.  It  has  a  little  wTooden  frame  on 
the  edge,  by  means  of  which  it  retains  as  much  of 
the  pulp  as  is  wanted  for  the  thickness  of  the  sheet, 
and  the  superfluity  runs  off  through  the  interstices  of 
the  wires.  Another  man  instantly  receives  it,  opens 
the  frame,  and  turns  out  the  thin  sheet,  which  has  now 
shape,  but  not  consistence,  upon  soft  felt,  which  is 
placed  on  the  ground  to  receive  it.  On  that  is  placed 
another  piece  of  felt,  and  then  another  sheet  of  paper, 
and  so  on  till  they  have  made  a  pile  of  forty  or  fifty. 
They  are  then  pressed  with  a  large  screw-press, 
moved  by  a  long  lever,  which  forcibly  squeezes  the 
water  out  of  them,  and  gives  them  immediate  con- 
sistence. There  is  still,  however,  a  great  deal  to  be 
done.  The  felts  are  taken  ofT  and  thrown  on  one 
side,  and  the  paper  on  the  other,  from  whence  it  is 
dexterously  taken  up  with  an  instrument  in  the  form 
of  a  T,  three  sheets  at  a  time,  and  hung  on  lines  to 
dry.     There  it  hangs  for  a  week  or  ten  days,  which 


44  THE  MANUFACTURE  OF  PAPER. 

likewise  further  whitens  it ;  and  any  knots  and  rough- 
nesses it  may  have  are  picked  off  carefully  by  the 
women.  It  is  then  sized.  Size  is  a  kind  of  glue  ; 
and  without  this  preparation  the  paper  would  not  bear 
ink  ;  it  would  run  and  blot,  as  you  see  it  does  on  grey 
paper.  The  sheets  are  just  dipped  into  the  size  and 
taken  out  again.  The  exact  degree  of  sizing  is  a 
matter  of  nicety,  which  can  only  be  known  by  ex- 
perience. They  are  then  hung  up  again  to  dry,  and 
when  dry  taken  to  the  finishing-room,  where  they  are 
examined  anew,  pressed  in  the  dry  presses,  which 
gives  them  their  last  gloss  and  smoothness ;  counted 
up  into  quires,  made  up  in  reams,  and  sent  to  the  sta- 
tioner's, from  whom  we  have  it,  after  he  has  folded  it 
again  and  cut  the  edges  ;  some  too  he  makes  to  shine 
like  satin,  by  glossing  it  with  hot  plates.  The  whole 
process  of  paper-making  takes  about  three  weeks. 

H.  It  is  a  very  curious  process  indeed.  I  shall 
almost  scruple  for  the  future  to  blacken  a  sheet  of 
paper  with  a  careless  scrawl,  now  1  know  how  much 
pains  it  costs  to  make  it  so  white  and  beautiful. 

F.  It  is  true  that  there  is  hardly  any  thing  we  use 
with  so  much  waste  and  profusion  as  this  manufacture  ; 
wTe  should  think  ourselves  confined  in  the  use  of  it, 
if  we  might  not  tear,  disperse,  and  destroy  it  in  a  thou- 
sand ways  ;  so  that  it  is  really  astonishing  from  whence 
linen  enough  can  be  procured  to  answer  so  vast  a 
demand.  As  to  the  coarse  brown  papers,  of  which 
an  astonishing  quantity  is  used  by  every  shopkeeper 
in  packages,  &c,  these  are  made  chiefly  of  oakum, 
that  is,  old  hempen  ropes.  A  fine  paper  is  made  in 
China  of  silk. 

H.  I  have  heard  lately  of  woven  paper  ;  pray  w  hat 
is  that  ?  diey  cannot  Weave  paper,  surely  ! 

F.  Your  question  is  very  natural.  In  order  to 
answer  it,  I  must  desire  you  to  take  a  sheet  of  com- 


THE  MANUFACTURE  OF  PAPER.  45 

mon  paper,  and  hold  it  up  against  the  light.  Do  not 
you  see  marks  in  it  ? 

H.  I  see  a  great  many  white  lines  running  along 
lengthways,  like  ribs,  and  smaller  that  cross  them. 
I  see,  too,  letters  and  the  figure  of  a  crown. 

F.  These  are  all  the  marks  of  the  wires  ;  the  thick- 
ness of  the  wire  prevents  so  much  of  the  pulp  lying 
upon  the  sheet  in  those  places,  consequently  wherever 
the  wires  are,  the  paper  is  thinner,  and  you  see  the 
light  through  more  readily,  which  gives  that  appear- 
ance of  white  lines.  The  letters  too  are  worked  in 
the  wire,  and  are  the  maker's  name.  Now  to  prevent 
these  lines,  which  take  off  from  the  beauty  of  the  pa- 
per, particularly  of  drawing  paper,  there  have  been 
lately  used  moulds  of  brass  wire  exceedingly  fine,  of 
equal  thickness,  and  woven  or  latticed  one  within 
another;  the  marks,  therefore,  of  these  are  easily 
pressed  out,  so  as  to  be  hardly  visible ;  if  you  look  at 
this  sheet  you  will  see  it  is  quite  smooth. 

H.  It  is  so. 

F.  I  should  mention  to  you,  that  there  is  a  discov- 
ery very  lately  made,  by  which  they  can  make  paper 
equal  to  any  in  whiteness,  of  the  coarsest  brown  rags, 
and  even  of  dyed  cottons  ;  which  they  have  till  now 
been  obliged  to  throw  by  for  inferior  purposes.  This 
is  by  means  of  manganese,  a  sort  of  mineral,  and  oil 
of  vitriol  ;  a  mixture  of  which  they  just  pass  through 
the  pulp,  while  it  is  in  water,  for  otherwise  it  would 
burn  it,  and  in  an  instant  it  discharges  the  colours  of 
the  dyed  cloths,  and  bleaches  the  brown  to  a  beauti- 
ful whiteness. 

H.  That  is  like  what  you  told  me  before  of  bleach- 
ing cloth  in  a  few  hours. 

F.  It  is  indeed  founded  upon  the  same  discovery. 
The  paper  made  of  these  brown  rags  is  likewise  more 
valuable,  from  being  very  tough  and  strong,  almost 
like  parchment. 


46  THE  MANUFACTURE  OF  PAPER. 

H.  When  was  the  making  of  paper  found  out  ? 

F.  It  is  a  disputed  point,  but  probably  in  the  four- 
teenth century.  The  invention  has  been  of  almost 
equal  consequence  to  literature,  as  that  of  printing 
itself;  and  shows  how  the  arts  and  sciences,  like 
children  of  the  same  family,  mutually  assist  and  bring 
forward  each  other. 


47 


THE  FOUR  SISTERS. 


I  am  one  of  four  sisters ;  and  having  some  reason 
to  think  myself  not  well  used  either  by  them  or  by 
die  world,  I  beg  leave  to  lay  before  you  a  sketch  of 
our  history  and  characters.  You  will  not  wonder 
there  should  be  frequent  bickerings  amongst  us,  when 
I  tell  you  that  in  our  infancy  we  were  continually 
fighting ;  and  so  great  was  the  noise,  and  din,  and 
confusion,  in  our  continual  struggles  to  get  uppermost, 
that  it  was  impossible  for  any  body  to  live  amongst  us 
in  such  a  scene  of  tumult  and  disorder.  These 
brawls,  however,  by  a  powerful  interposition,  were  put 
an  end  to  ;  our  proper  place  was  assigned  to  each  of 
us,  and  we  had  strict  orders  not  to  encroach  on  the 
limits  of  each  other's  property,  but  to  join  our  com- 
mon offices  for  the  good  of  the  whole  family. 

My  first  sister,  (1  call  her  the  first,  because  we 
have  generally  allowed  her  the  precedence  in  rank,) 
is,  I  must  acknowledge,  of  a  very  active,  sprightly 
disposition  ;  quick  and  lively,  and  has  more  brilliancy 
than  any  of  us  ;  but  she  is  hot ;  every  thing  serves  for 
fuel  to  her  fury  when  it  is  once  raised  to  a  certain 
degree,  and  she  is  so  mischievous  whenever  she  gets 
the  upper  hand,  that,  notwithstanding  her  aspiring  dis- 
position, if  I  may  freely  speak  my  mind,  she  is  calcu- 
lated to  make  a  good  servant,  but  a  very  bad  mistress. 

I  am  almost  ashamed  to  mention,  that  notwithstand- 
ing her  seeming  delicacy,  she  has  a  most  voracious 
appetite,  and  devours  every  thing  that  comes  in  her 
way  ;  though,  like  other  eager  thin  people,  she  does 
no  credit  to  her  keeping.     Many  a  time  has  she  con- 


48  THE  FOUR  SISTERS. 

sumed  the  product  of  my  barns  and  store-houses,  but 
it  is  all  lost  upon  her.  She  has  even  been  known  to 
get  into  an  oil-shop  or  tallow  chandler's,  when  every- 
body was  asleep,  and  lick  up,  with  the  utmost  greedi- 
ness, whatever  she  found  there.  Indeed,  all  prudent 
people  are  aware  of  her  tricks,  and  though  she  is  ad- 
mitted into  the  best  families,  they  take  care  to  watch 
her  very  narrowly.  I  should  not  forget  to  mention, 
that  my  sister  was  once  in  a  country  where  she  was 
treated  with  uncommon  respect ;  she  was  lodged  in  a 
sumptuous  building,  and  had  a  number  of  young 
women,  of  the  best  families,  to  attend  on  her,  and 
feed  her,  and  watch  over  her  health ;  in  short,  she 
was  looked  upon  as  something  more  than  a  common 
mortal.  But  she  always  behaved  with  great  severity 
to  her  maids,  and  if  any  of  them  were  negligent  of 
their  duty,  or  made  a  slip  in  their  own  conduct,  no- 
thing would  serve  her  but  burying  the  poor  girls  alive. 
I  have  myself  had  some  dark  hints  and  intimations 
from  the  most  respectable  authority,  that  she  will 
some  time  or  other  make  an  end  of  me.  You  need 
not  wonder,  therefore,  if  I  am  jealous  of  her  motions. 
The  next  sister  I  shall  mention  to  you,  has  so  far 
the  appearance  of  Modesty  and  Humility,  that  she 
generally  seeks  the  lowest  place.  She  is  indeed  of 
a  very  yielding,  easy  temper,  generally  cool,  and 
often  wears  a  sweet  placid  smile  upon  her  counten- 
ance ;  but  she  is  easily  ruffled,  and  when  worked  up, 
as  she  often  is,  by  another  sister,  whom  I  shall  men- 
tion to  you  by  and  by,  she  becomes  a  perfect  fury. 
Indeed  she  is  so  apt  to  swell  with  sudden  gusts  of 
passion,  that  she  is  suspected  at  times  to  be  a  little 
lunatic.  Between  her  and  my  first  mentioned  sister, 
there  is  more  settled  antipathy  than  between  the  The- 
ban  pair ;  and  they  never  meet  without  making  efforts 
to  destroy  one  another.     With  me  she  is  always  ready 


THE  FOUR  SISTERS.  49 

to  form  the  most  intimate  union,  but  it  is  not  always 
to  my  advantage.  There  goes  a  story  in  our  family, 
that  when  we  were  all  young,  she  once  attempted  to 
drown  me.  She  actually  kept  me  under  a  considera- 
ble time,  and  though  at  length  I  got  my  head  above 
water,  my  constitution  is  generally  thought  to  have 
been  essentially  injured  by  it  ever  since.  From  that 
time  she  has  made  no  such  atrocious  attempt,  but  she 
is  continually  making  encroachments  upon  my  prop- 
erty ;  and  even  when  she  appears  most  gentle,  she  is 
very  insidious,  and  has  such  an  undermining  way  with 
her,  that  her  insinuating  arts  are  as  much  to  be  dread- 
ed as  open  violence.  I  might  indeed  remonstrate, 
but  it  is  a  known  part  of  her  character,  that  nothing 
makes  any  lasting  impression  upon  her. 

As  to  my  third  sister,  I  have  already  mentioned  the 
ill  offices  she  does  me  with  my  last  mentioned  one, 
who  is  entirely  under  her  influence.  She  is,  besides,  of 
a  very  uncertain,  variable  temper,  sometimes  hot,  and 
sometimes  cold  ;  nobody  knows  where  to  have  her. 
Her  lightness  is  even  'proverbial,  and  she  has  nothing 
to  give  those  who  live  with  her  more  substantial  than 
the  smiles  of  courtiers.  I  must  add,  that  she  keeps 
in  her  service  three  or  four  rough,  blustering  bullies, 
with  puffed  cheeks,  who,  when  they  are  let  loose, 
think  they  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  drive  the  world 
before  them.  She  sometimes  joins  with  my  first  sis- 
ter, and  their  violence  occasionally  throws  me  into 
such  a  trembling,  that,  though  naturally  of  a  firm  con- 
stitution, I  shake  as  if  I  was  in  an  ague  fit. 

As  to  myself,  I  am  of  a  steady,  solid  temper ;  not 
shining  indeed,  but  kind  and  liberal,  quite  a  Lady 
Bountiful.  Every  one  tastes  of  my  beneficence,  and 
I  am  of  so  graceful  a  disposition,  that  I  have  been 
known  to  return  an  hundred-fold  for  any  present  that 
has  been  made  me.  I  feed  and  clothe  all  my  chil- 
5 


50  THE  FOUR  SISTER-. 

dren,  and  afford  a  welcome  home  to  the  wretch  who 
has  no  other  home.  I  hear  with  unrepining  patience 
all  manner  of  ill  usage  ;  I  am  trampled  upon,  I  am 
torn  and  wounded  with  the  most  cutting  strokes  ;  I  am 
pillaged  of  the  treasures  hidden  in  my  most  secret 
chambers  5  notwithstanding  which,  I  am  always  readv 
to  return  good  for  evil,  and  am  continually  subservient 
to  the  pleasure  or  advantage  of  others  ;  yet,  so  un- 
grateful is  the  world,  that  because  I  do  not  possess  all 
the  airiness  and  activity  of  my  sisters,  I  am  stigma- 
tized as  dull  and  heavy.  Every  sordid,  miserly  fellow 
is  called  by  way  of  derision  one  of  my  children  ;  and 
if  a  person  on  entering  a  room  does  but  turn  his  eyes 
upon  me,  he  is  thought  stupid  and  mean,  and  not  fit 
for  good  company.  I  have  the  satisfaction,  however, 
of  finding  that  people  always  incline  towards  me  as 
they  grow  older ;  and  that  those  who  seemed  proudly 
to  disdain  any  affinity  with  me,  are  content  to  sink  at 
last  into  my  bosom.  You  will  probably  wish  to  have 
some  account  of  my  person.  I  am  not  a  regular 
beauty  ;  some  of  my  features  are  rather  harsh  and 
prominent,  when  viewed  separately  ;  but  my  counte- 
nance has  so  much  variety  of  expression,  and  so  many 
different  attitudes  of  elegance,  that  those  who  study 
my  face  with  attention,  find  out  continually  new 
charms  ;  and  it  may  be  truly  said  of  me,  what  Titus 
says  of  his  mistress,  and  for  a  much  longer  space, 

Pendant  cinq  ans  entiers  tous  les  jours  je  la  vois, 
Et  crois  toujours  la  voir  pour  la  premiere  fois. 

For  five  whole  years  each  day  she  meets  my  view, 
Yet  every  day  I  seem  to  see  her  new. 

Though  I  have  been  so  long  a  mother,  I  have  still 
a  surprising  air  of  youth  and  freshness,  which  is  assist- 
ed by  all  the  advantages  of  well  chosen  ornament,  for  I 
dress  well,  and  according  to  the  season. 


THE  FOUR  SISTERS.  51 

This  is  what  I  have  chiefly  to  say  of  myself  and 
my  sisters.  To  a  person  of  your  sagacity  it  will  be 
unnecessary  for  me  to  sign  my  name.  Indeed,  one 
who  becomes  acquainted  with  any  one  of  the  family, 
cannot  be  at  a  loss  to  discover  the  rest,  notwithstand- 
ing the  difference  in  our  features  and  characters. 


HYMNS  IN  PROSE 


CHILDREN 


5* 


HYMNS. 


Come,  let  us  praise  God,  for  he  is  exceeding  great  5 
let  us  bless  God,  for  he  is  very  good. 

He  made  all  things ;  the  sun  to  rule  the  day,  the 
moon  to  shine  by  night. 

He  made  the  great  whale,  and  the  elephant ;  and 
the  little  worm  that  crawleth  on  the  ground. 

The  little  birds  sing  praises  to  God,  when  they 
warble  sweetly  in  the  green  shade. 

The  brooks  and  rivers  praise  God,  when  they  mur- 
mur melodiously  amongst  the  smooth  pebbles. 

1  will  praise  God  with  my  voice ;  for  I  may  praise 
him  though  I  am  but  a  little  child. 

A  few  years  ago,  and  1  was  a  little  infant,  and  my 
tongue  was  dumb  within  my  mouth : 

And  I  did  not  know  the  great  name  of  God,  for 
my  reason  was  not  come  unto  me. 

But  now  I  can  speak,  and  my  tongue  shall  praise 
him ;  I  can  think  of  all  his  kindness,  and  my  heart 
shall  love  him. 

Let  him  call  me,  and  I  will  come  unto  him ;  let 
him  command,  and  I  will  obey  him. 

When  I  am  older,  1  will  praise  him  better  ;  and  I 
will  never  forget  God,  so  long  as  my  life  remaineth 
in  me. 


56  HYMNS  IN  PROSE. 


HYMN  II. 


Come,  let  us  go  forth  into  the  fields,  let  us  see 
how  the  flowers  spring,  let  us  listen  to  the  warbling  of 
the  birds,  and  sport  ourselves  upon  the  new  grass. 

The  winter  is  over  and  gone,  the  buds  come  out 
upon  the  trees,  the  crimson  blossoms  of  the  peach 
and  the  nectarine  are  seen,  and  the  green  leaves 
sprout. 

The  hedges  are  bordered  with  tufts  of  primroses, 
and  yellow  cowslips  that  hang  down  their  heads  ;  and 
the  blue  violet  lies  hid  beneath  the  shade. 

The  young  goslings  are  running  upon  the  green, 
they  are  just  hatched,  their  bodies  are  covered  with 
yellow  down  ;  the  old  ones  hiss  with  anger  if  any  one 
comes  near. 

The  hen  sits  upon  her  nest  of  straw,  she  watches 
patiently  the  full  time,  then  she  carefully  breaks  the 
shell,  and  the  young  chickens  come  out. 

The  lambs  just  dropt  are  in  the  field,  they  totter  by 
the  side  of  their  dams,  their  young  limbs  can  hardly 
support  their  weight. 

If  you  fall,  little  lambs,  you  will  not  be  hurt ;  there 
is  spread  under  you  a  carpet  of  soft  grass ;  it  is  spread 
on  purpose  to  receive  you. 

The  butterflies  flutter  from  bush  to  bush,  and  open 
their  wings  to  the  warm  sun. 

The  young  animals  of  every  kind  are  sporting 
about,  they  feel  themselves  happy,  they  are  glad  to 
be  alive, — they  thank  him  that  has  made  them  alive. 

They  may  thank  him  in  their  hearts,  but  we  can 
thank  him  with  our  tongues ;  we  are  better  than  they, 
and  can  praise  him  better. 

The  birds  can  warble,  and  the  young  lambs  can 


HYMNS  IN  PROSE.  57 

bleat ;  but  we  can  open  our  lips  in  his  praise,  we  can 
speak  of  all  his  goodness. 

Therefore  we  will  thank  him  for  ourselves,  and  we 
will  thank  him  for  those  that  cannot  speak. 

Trees  that  blossom,  and  little  lambs  that  skip  about, 
if  you  could,  you  would  say  how  good  he  is;  but  you 
are  dumb,  we  will  say  it  for  you. 

We  will  not  offer  you  in  sacrifice,  but  we  will  offer 
sacrifice  for  you,  on  every  hill,  and  in  every  green 
field,  we  will  offer  the  sacrifice  of  thanksgiving,  and 
the  incense  of  praise. 


HYMN  III. 

Behold  the  shepherd  of  the  flock ;  he  taketh  care 
for  his  sheep,  he  leadeth  them  among  clear  brooks, 
he  guideth  them  to  fresh  pasture :  if  the  young  lambs 
are  weary,  he  carrieth  them  in  his  arms  ;  if  they  wan- 
der, he  bringeth  them  back. 

But  who  is  the  shepherd's  Shepherd  ;  who  taketh 
care  for  him  ?  who  guideth  him  in  the  path  he  should 
go  ?  and,  if  he  wander,  who  shall  bring  him  back  ? 

God  is  the  shepherd's  Shepherd.  He  is  the  Shep- 
herd over  all ;  he  taketh  care  for  all ;  the  whole  earth 
is  his  fold  ;  we  are  all  his  flock  ;  and  every  herb,  and 
every  green  field  is  the  pasture  which  he  hath  pre- 
pared for  us. 

The  mother  loveth  her  little  child  ;  she  bringeth  it 
up  on  her  knees ;  she  nourisheth  its  body  with  food  ; 
she  feedeth  its  mind  with  knowledge  :  if  it  is  sick, 
she  nurseth  it  with  tender  love ;  she  watcheth  over  it 
when  asleep  ;  she  forgetteth  it  not  for  a  moment ;  she 
teacheth  it  how  to  be  good  ;  she  rejoiceth  daily  in  its 
growth. 


HYMNS  IN  PROSE. 

But  who  is  the  Parent  of  the  mother  ?  who  nour- 
ished] her  with  good  things,  and  watcheth  over  her 
with  tender  love,  and  rememhereth  her  every  moment  : 
Whose  arms  are  about  her  to  guard  her  from  harm  ? 
and  if  she  is  sick,  who  shall  heal  her  ? 

God  is  the  Parent  of  the  modier  ;  he  is  the  parent 
of  all,  for  he  created  all.  All  the  men,  and  all  the 
women,  who  are  alive  in  the  wide  world,  are  his  chil- 
dren ;  he  loveth  all,  he  is  good  to  all. 

The  king  governeth  his  people ;  he  hath  a  golden 
crown  upon  his  head,  and  the  royal  sceptre  is  in  his 
hand ;  he  sitteth  upon  a  throne,  and  sendeth  forth  his 
commands ;  his  subjects  fear  before  him  ;  if  they  do 
well,  he  protecteth  them  from  danger ;  and  if  they  do 
evil,  he  punisheth  them. 

But  who  is  the  Sovereign  of  the  king  ?  who  com- 
mandeth  him  what  he  must  do  ?  whose  hand  is  reach- 
ed out  to  protect  him  from  danger  ?  and  if  he  doeth 
evil,  who  shall  punish  him  ? 

God  is  the  Sovereign  of  the  king  ;  his  crown  is  of 
rays  of  light,  and  his  throne  is  amongst  the  stars.  He 
is  King  of  kings,  and  Lord  of  lords  :  if  he  biddeth  us 
live,  we  live  ;  and  if  he  biddeth  us  die,  we  die  :  his 
dominion  is  over  all  worlds,  and  the  light  of  his  coun- 
tenance is  upon  all  his  works. 

God  is  our  Shepherd,  therefore  we  will  follow  him  ; 
God  is  our  Father,  therefore  we  will  love  him  ;  God 
is  our  King,  therefore  we  will  obey  him. 


HYMN  IV. 

Come,  and  I  will  show  you  what  is  beautiful.  It 
is  a  rose  fully  blown.  See  how  she  sits  upon  her 
mossy  stem,  like  the  queen  of  all  the  flowers !    her 


HYMNS  IN  PROSE.  50 

leaves  glow  like  fire ;  the  air  is  filled  with  her  sweet 
odour  !  she  is  the  delight  of  every  eye. 

She  is  beautiful,  but  there  is  a  fairer  than  she.  He 
that  made  the  rose  is  more  beautiful  than  the  rose ; 
he  is  all  lovely ;  he  is  the  delight  of  every  heart. 

I  will  show  you  what  is  strong.  The  lion  is  strong .: 
when  he  raiseth  up  himself  from  his  lair,  when  he 
shaketh  his  mane,  when  the  voice  of  his  roaring  is 
heard,  the  cattle  of  the  field  fly,  and  the  wild  beasts 
of  the  desert  hide  themselves,  for  he  is  very  terrible. 

The  lion  is  strong,  but  he  that  made  the  lion  is 
stronger  than  he :  his  anger  is  terrible ;  he  could 
make  us  die  in  a  moment,  and  no  one  could  save  us 
out  of  his  hand. 

I  will  show  you  what  is  glorious.  The  sun  is  glo- 
rious. When  he  shineth  in  the  clear  sky,  when  he 
sitteth  on  the  bright  throne  in  the  heavens,  and  look- 
eth  abroad  over  all  the  earth,  he  is  the  most  excellent 
and  glorious  creature  the  eye  can  behold. 

The  sun  is  glorious,  but  he  that  made  the  sun  is 
more  glorious  than  he.  The  eye  beholdeth  him  not, 
for  his  brightness  is  more  dazzling  than  we  could 
bear.  He  seeth  in  all  dark  places ;  by  night  as  well 
as  by  day ;  and  the  light  of  his  countenanance  is  over 
all  his  works. 

Who  is  this  great  name,  and  what  is  he  called,  that 
my  lips  may  praise  him  ? 

This  great  name  is  GOD.  He  made  all  things, 
but  he  is  himself  more  excellent  than  all  which  he 
hath  made  :  they  are  beautiful,  but  he  is  beauty  ;  they 
are  strong,  but  he  is  strength ;  they  are  perfect,  but 
he  is  perfection. 


60  HYMNS  IN  PROSE. 


HYMN  V. 


The  glorious  sun  is  set  in  the  west;  the  night 
dews  fall ;  and  the  air,  which  was  sultry,  becomes 
cool. 

The  flowers  fold  up  their  coloured  leaves  ;  they 
fold  themselves  up,  and  hang  their  heads  on  the  slen- 
der stalk. 

The  chickens  are  gathered  under  the  wing  of  the 
hen,  and  are  at  rest ;  the  hen  herself  is  at  rest  also. 

The  little  birds  have  ceased  their  warbling,  they 
are  asleep  on  the  boughs,  each  one  with  his  head  be- 
hind his  wing. 

There  is  no  murmur  of  bees  around  the  hive,  or 
among  the  honeyed  woodbines  ;  they  have  done  their 
work,  and  lie  close  in  their  waxen  cells. 

The  sheep  rest  upon  their  soft  fleeces,  and  their 
loud  bleating  is  no  more  heard  amongst,  the  hills. 

There  is  no  sound  of  a  number  of  voices,  or  of 
children  at  play,  or  the  trampling  of  busy  feet,  and  of 
people  hurrying  to  and  fro. 

The  smith's  hammer  is  not  heard  upon  the  anvil ; 
nor  the  harsh  saw  of  the  carpenter. 

All  men  are  stretched  on  their  quiet  beds ;  and  the 
child  sleeps  upon  the  breast  of  its  mother. 

Darkness  is  spread  over  the  skies,  and  darkness  is 
upon  the  ground ;  every  eye  is  shut,  and  every  hand 
is  still. 

Who  taketh  care  of  all  people  when  they  are  sunk 
in  sleep ;  when  they  cannot  defend  themselves,  nor 
see  if  danger  approacheth  ? 

There  is  an  eye  that  never  sleepeth  ;  there  is  an 
eye  that  seeth  in  dark  night  as  well  as  in  the  bright 
sunshine. 


HYMNS  IN  PROSE.  61 

When  there  is  no  light  of  the  sun,  nor  of  the  moon ; 
when  there  is  no  lamp  in  the  house,  nor  any  little  star 
twinkling  through  the  thick  clouds ;  that  eye  seeth 
every  where,  in  all  places,  and  watcheth  continually 
over  all  the  families  of  the  earth. 

The  eye  that  sleepeth  not  is  God's ;  his  hand  is 
always  stretched  out  over  us. 

He  made  sleep  to  refresh  us  when  we  are  weary  : 
he  made  night,  that  we  might  sleep  in  quiet. 

As  the  mother  moveth  about  the  house  with  her 
finger  on  her  lips,  and  stilleth  every  little  noise,  that 
her  infant  be  not  disturbed  ;  as  she  draweth  the  cur- 
tains around  its  bed,  and  shutteth  out  the  light  from 
its  tender  eyes ;  so  God  draweth  the  curtains  of  dark- 
ness around  us  ;  so  he  maketh  all  things  to  be  hushed 
and  still,  that  his  large  family  may  sleep  in  peace. 

Labourers  spent  with  toil,  and  young  children,  and 
every  little  humming  insect,  sleep  quietly,  for  God 
watcheth  over  you. 

You  may  sleep,  for  he  never  sleeps  :  you  may 
close  your  eyes  in  safety,  for  his  eye  is  always  open 
to  protect  you. 

When  the  darkness  is  passed  awTay,  and  the  beams 
of  the  morning  sun  strike  through  your  eyelids,  begin 
the  day  with  praising  God,  who  hath  taken  care  of 
you  through  the  night. 

Flowers,  when  you  open  again,  spread  your  leaves, 
and  smell  sweet  to  his  praise. 

Birds,  when  you  awake,  warble  your  thanks  amongst 
the  green  boughs ;  sing  to  him  before  you  sing  to  your 
mates. 

Let  his  praise  be  in  our  hearts,  when  we  lie  down ; 
let  his  praise  be  in  our  lips,  when  we  awake. 


62  HYMNS  IN  PROSE. 


HYMN  VI. 


.  Child  of  reason,  whence  comest  thou  ?  What 
has  thine  eye  observed,  and  whither  has  thy  foot  been 
wandering  ? 

I  have  been  wandering  along  the  meadows,  in  the 
thick  grass ;  the  cattle  were  feeding  around  me,  or 
reposing  in  the  cool  shade  ;  the  corn  sprung  up  in  the 
furrows ;  the  poppy  and  the  harebell  grew  among  the 
wheat ;  the  fields  were  bright  with  summer,  and  glow- 
ing with  beauty. 

Didst  thou  see  nothing  more  ?  Didst  thou  observe 
nothing  besides  ?  Return  again,  child  of  reason,  for 
there  are  greater  things  than  these. 

— God  was  among  the  fields  ;  and  didst  thou  not 
perceive  him  ?  his  beauty  was  upon  the  meadows ; 
his  smile  enlivened  the  sunshine. 

I  have  walked  through  the  thick  forest ;  the  wind 
whispered  among  the  trees  ;  the  brook  fell  from  the 
rocks  with  a  pleasant  murmur  ;  the  squirrel  leapt  from 
bough  to  bough  :  and  the  birds  sung  to  each  other 
amongst  the  branches. 

Didst  thou  hear  nothing,  but  the  murmur  of  the 
brook  ?  no  whispers  but  the  whispers  of  the  wind  ? 
Return  again,  child  of  reason,  for  there  are  greater 
things  than  these. — God  was  amongst  the  trees  ;  his 
voice  sounded  in  the  murmur  of  the  water  ;  his  music 
warbled  in  the  shade  ;  and  didst  thou  not  attend  ? 

I  saw  the  moon  rising  behind  trees  ;  it  was  like  a 
lamp  of  gold.  The  stars  one  after  another  appeared 
in  the  clear  firmament.  Presently  I  saw  black  clouds 
arise,  and  roll  towards  the  south  ;  the  lightning  stream- 
ed in  thick  flashes  over  the  sky  ;  the  thunder  growled 
at  a  distance ;  it  came  nearer,  and  I  felt  afraid,  for  it 
was  loud  and  terrible. 


HYMNS  IN  PROSE,  63 

Did  thy  heart  feel  no  terror,  but  of  the  thunder- 
bolt ?  Was  there  nothing  bright  and  terrible  but  the 
lightning  ?  Return.  O  child  of  reason,  for  there  are 
greater  things  than  these. — God  was  in  the  storm,  and 
didst  thou  not  perceive  him  ?  His  terrors  were  abroad, 
and  did  not  thine  heart  acknowledge  him  ? 

God  is  in  every  place  ;  he  speaks  in  every  sound 
we  hear  ;  he  is  seen  in  all  that  our  eyes  behold  ;  no- 
thing, O  child  of  reason,  is  without  God  ; — let  God 
therefore  be  in  all  thy  thoughts. 


HYMN  VII. 

• 

Come,  let  us  go  into  the  thick  shade,  for  it  is  the 
noon  of  day,  and  the  summer  sun  beats  hot  upon  our 
heads. 

The  shade  is  pleasant  and  cool ;  the  branches  meet 
above  our  heads,  and  shut  out  the  sun  as  with  a  green 
curtain  ;  the  grass  is  soft  to  our  feet,  and  a  clear  brook 
washes  the  roots  of  the  trees. 

The  sloping  bank  is  covered  with  flowers  ;  let  us 
lie  down  upon  it ;  let  us  throw  our  limbs  on  the  fresh 
grass  and  sleep  ;  for  all  things  are  still,  and  we  are 
quite  alone. 

The  cattle  can  lie  down  to  sleep  in  the  cool  shade, 
but  we  can  do  what  is  better  ;  we  can  raise  our  voices 
to  heaven  ;  we  can  praise  the  great  God  who  made  us. 
He  made  the  warm  sun,  and  the  cool  shade ;  the 
trees  that  grow  upwards,  and  the  brooks  that  run  mur- 
muring along.  All  the  things  that  we  see  are  his 
work. 

Can  we  raise  our  voices  up  to  the  high  heaven  ? 
Can  we  make  him  hear  who  is  above  the  stars  ?  We 
need  not  raise  our  voices  to  the  stars,  for  he  heareth 


64  HYMNS  IN  PROSE. 

us  when  we  only  whisper  ;  when  we  breathe  out 
words  softly  with  a  low  voice.  He  that  filleth  the 
heavens  is  here  also. 

May  we  that  are  so  young,  speak  to  him  that  always 
was  ?  May  we,  that  can  hardly  speak  plain,  speak 
to  God  ? 

We  that  are  so  young,  are  but  lately  made  alive  ; 
therefore  we  should  not  forget  his  forming  hand  who 
hath  made  us  alive.  We  that  cannot  speak  plain, 
should  lisp  out  praises  to  him  who  teacheth  us  how 
to  speak,  and  hath  opened  our  dumb  lips. 

When  we  could  not  think  of  him,  he  thought  of  us  ; 
before  we  could  ask  him  to  bless  us>  he  had  already 
given  us  many  blessings. 

He  fashioiieth  our  tender  limbs,  and  causeth  them 
to  grow ;  he  maketh  us  strong,  and  tall,  and  nimble. 

Every  day  we  are  more  active  than  the  former  day, 
therefore  every  day  we  ought  to  praise  him  better 
than  the  former  day. 

The  buds  spread  into  leaves,  and  the  blossoms  swell 
to  fruit ;  but  they  know  not  how  they  grow,  nor  who 
caused  them  to  spring  up  from  the  bosom  of  the 
earth. 

Ask  them  if  they  will  tell  thee ;  bid  them  break 
forth  into  singing,  and  fill  the  air  with  pleasant  sounds. 

They  smell  sweet ;  they  look  beautiful ;  but  they 
are  quite  silent ;  no  sound  is  in  the  still  air  ;  no' mur- 
mur of  voices  amongst  the  green  leaves. 

The  plants  and  the  trees  are  made  to  give  fruit  to 
man  ;  but  man  is  made  to  praise  God  who  made  him. 

We  love  to  praise  him,  because  he  lovcth  to  bless 
us  ;  wTe  thank  him  for  life,  because  it  is  a  pleasant 
thing  to  be  alive. 

We  love  God,  who  hath  created  all  beings  ;  we 
love  all  beings,  because  they  are  the  creatures  of  God, 

We  cannot  be  good,  as  God  is  good  to  all  persons 


HYMNS  IN  PROSE.  §3 

every  where  ;  but  we  can  rejoice  that  every  where 
there  is  a  God  to  do  them  good. 

We  will  tliink  of  God  when  we  play,  and  when  we 
work ;  when  we  walk  out,  and  when  we  come  in  ; 
when  we  sleep,  and  when  we  wake  ;  his  praise  shall 
dwell  continually  upon  our  lips. 


HYMN  VIII. 

See  where  stands  the  cottage  of  the  labourer  cov- 
ered with  warm  thatch  !  the  mother  is  spinning  at  the 
door ;  the  young  children  sport  before  her  on  the 
grass ;  the  elder  ones  learn  to  labour,  and  are  obedi- 
ent ;  the  father  worketh  to  provide  them  food  :  either 
he  tilleth  the  ground,  or  he  gathereth  in  the  corn,  or 
shaketh  his  ripe  apples  from  the  tree  ;  his  children 
run  to  meet  him  when  he  cometh  home,  and  his  wife 
prepareth  the  wholesome  meal. 

The  father,  the  mother,  and  the  children,  make 
a  family;  the  father  is  the  master  thereof.  If  the 
family  be  numerous,  and  the  grounds  large,  there  are 
servants  to  help  to  do  the  work  :  all  these  dwell  in 
one  house  ;  they  sleep  beneath  one  roof;  they  eat  of 
the  same  bread ;  they  kneel  down  together  and  praise 
God  every  night  and  every  morning  with  one  voice  ; 
they  are  very  closely  united,  and  are  dearer  to  each 
other  than  any  strangers.  If  one  is  sick,  they  mourn 
together  ;  and  if  one  is  happy,  they  rejoice  together. 

Many  houses  are  built  together  ;  many  families  live 
near  one  another  ;  they  meet  together  on  the  green, 
and  in  pleasant  walks,  and  to  buy  and  sell,  and  in  the 
house  of  justice  :  and  the  sound  of  the  bell  calleth 
them  to  the  house  of  God,  in  company.  If  one  is 
poor,  his  neighbour  helpeth  him  ;  if  he  is  sad,  he  corn- 
6* 


66  HYMNS  IN  PROSE. 

forteth  him.  This  is  a  village ;  see  where  it  stands 
enclosed  in  a  green  shade,  and  the  tall  spire  peeps 
above  the  trees.  If  there  be  very  many  houses,  it  is 
a  town — it  is  governed  by  a  magistrate. 

Many  towns,  and  a  large  extent  of  country,  make 
a  kingdom  ;  it  is  enclosed  by  mountains  ;  it  is  divided 
by  rivers ;  it  is  washed  by  seas ;  the  inhabitants  there- 
of are  countrymen  ;  they  speak  the  same  language  ; 
they  make  war  and  peace  together ;  a  king  is  the 
ruler  thereof. 

Many  kingdoms  and  countries  full  of  people,  and 
islands,  and  large  continents,  and  different  climates, 
make  up  this  whole  world — God  governeth  it.  The 
people  swarm  upon  the  face  of  it  like  ants  upon  a 
hillock ;  some  are  black  with  the  hot  sun  ;  some  cover 
themselves  with  furs  against  the  sharp  cold  ;  some 
drink  of  the  fruit  of  the  vine  ;  some  the  pleasant  milk 
of  the  cocoa-nut ;  and  others  quench  their  thirst  with 
the  running  stream. 

All  are  God's  family ;  he  knoweth  every  one  of 
them,  as  a  shepherd  knoweth  his  flock  ;  they  pray  to 
him  in  different  languages,  but  he  understandeth  them 
all ;  he  heareth  them  all ;  he  taketh  care  of  all ;  none 
are  so  great  that  he  cannot  punish  them  ;  none  are  so 
mean,  that  he  will  not  protect  them. 

Negro  woman,  who  sittest  pining  in  captivity,  and 
weepest  over  thy  sick  child  :  though  no  one  seeth 
thee,  God  seeth  thee ;  though  no  one  pitieth  thee, 
God  pitieth  thee  :  raise  thy  voice,  forlorn  and  aban- 
doned one ;  call  upon  him  from  amidst  thy  bonds,  for 
assuredly  he  will  hear  thee. 

Monarch,  that  rulest  over  an  hundred  states  ;  whose 
frown  is  terrible  as  death,  and  whose  armies  cover 
the  land,  boast  not  thyself  as  though  there  were  none 
above  thee  : — God  is  above  thee  ;  his  powerful  arm 
is  always  over  thee ;  and  if  thou  doest  ill,  assuredly 
he  will  punish  thee. 


HYMNS  IN  PROSE.  67 

Nations  of  the  earth,  fear  the  Lord  ;  families  of 
men,  call  upon  the  name  of  your  God. 

Is  there  any  one  whom  God  hath  not  made  ?  let 
him  not  worship  him :  is  there  any  one  whom  he 
hath  not  blessed  ?  let  him  not  praise  him. 


HYMN  IX. 

Come,  let  us  walk  abroad  ;  let  us  talk  of  the  works 
of  God. 

Take  up  a  handful  of  the  sand  ;  number  the  grains 
of  it ;  tell  them  one  by  one  into  your  lap. 

Try  if  you  can  count  the  blades  of  grass  in  the 
field,  or  the  leaves  on  the  trees. 

You  cannot  count  them,  they  are  innumerable ; 
much  more  the  things  which  God  has  made. 

The  fir  groweth  on  the  high  mountain,  and  the 
grey  willow  bends  above  the  stream. 

The  thistle  is  armed  with  sharp  prickles ;  the  mal- 
low is  soft  and  woolly. 

The  hop  layeth  hold  with  her  tendrils,  and  clasp- 
eth  the  tall  pole  ;  the  oak  hath  firm  root  in  the  ground, 
and  resisteth  the  winter  storm. 

The  daisy  enamelleth  the  meadows,  and  groweth 
beneath  the  foot  of  the  passenger  :  the  tulip  asketh  a 
rich  soil,  and  the  careful  hand  of  the  gardener. 

The  iris  and  the  reed  spring  up  in  the  marsh  ;  the 
rich  grass  covereth  the  meadows ;  and  the  purple 
heath  flower  enliveneth  the  waste  ground. 

The  water  lilies  grow  beneath  the  stream ;  their 
broad  leaves  float  on  the  surface  of  the  water  :  the 
wall-flower  takes  root  in  the  hard  stone,  and  spreads 
its  fragrance  amongst  the  broken  ruins. 

Every  leaf  is  of  a  different  form  ;  every  plant  hath 
a  separate  inhabitant. 


68  HYMNS  IN  PROSE. 

Look  at  the  thorns  that  are  white  with  blossoms, 
and  the  flowers  that  cover  the  fields,  and  the  plants 
that  are  trodden  in  the  green  path.  The  hand  of 
man  hath  not  planted  them  ;  the  sower  hath  not  scat- 
tered the  seeds  from  his  hand,  nor  the  gardener  digged 
a  place  for  them  with  his  spade. 

Some  grow  on  steep  rocks,  where  no  man  can 
climb  :  in  shaking  bogs,  and  deep  forests,  and  desert 
islands :  they  spring  up  every  where,  and  cover  the 
bosom  of  the  whole  earth. 

Who  causeth  them  to  grow  every  where,  and  blow- 
eth  the  seeds  about  in  winds,  and  mixeth  them  with 
the  mould,  and  watereth  them  with  soft  rains,  and 
cherisheth  them  with  dews  ?  Who  fanneth  them  with 
the  pure  breath  of  Heaven  :  and  giveth  them  colours, 
and  smells,  and  spreadeth  out  their  thin  transparent 
leaves  ? 

How  doth  the  rose  draw  its  crimson  from  the  dark 
brown  earth,  or  the  lily  its  shining  white  ?  How  can 
a  small  seed  contain  a  plant  ?  How  doth  every  plant 
know  its  season  to  put  forth  ?  They  are  marshalled 
in  order  :  each  one  knoweth  his  place,  and  stand eth 
up  in  his  own  rank. 

The  snow-drop,  and  the  primrose,  make  haste  to 
lift  their  heads  above  the  ground.  When  the  spring 
cometh,  they  say,  Here  we  are  !  The  carnation 
waiteth  for  the  full  strength  of  the  year  ;  and  the  hardy 
laurustinus  cheereth  the  winter  months. 

Every  plant  produceth  its  like.  An  ear  of  corn 
will  not  grow  from  an  acorn  ;  nor  will  a  grape-stone 
produce  cherries  ;  but  every  one  springeth  from  its 
proper  seed. 

Who  preserveth  them  alive  through  the  cold  of 
winter,  when  the  snow  is  on  the  ground  ;  and  the 
sharp  frost  bites  on  the  plain  ?  Who  soweth  a  small 
seed,   and  a  little  warmth  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 


HYMNS  IN  PROSE.  69 

and  causeth  them  to  spring  up  afresh,  and  sap  to  rise 
through  the  hard  fibres  ? 

The  trees  are  withered,  naked,  and  bare ;  they  are 
like  dry  bones.  Who  breatheth  on  them  with  the 
breath  of  spring,  and  they  are  covered  with  verdure, 
and  green  leaves  sprout  from  the  dead  wood  ? 

Lo,  these  are  a  part  of  his  works ;  and  a  little  por- 
tion of  his  wonders. 

There  is  little  need  that  I  should  tell  you  of  God, 
for  every  thing  speaks  of  him. 

Every  field  is  like  an  open  book ;  every  painted 
flower  hath  a  lesson  written  on  its  leaves. 

Every  murmuring  brook  hath  a  tongue  ;  a  voice  is 
in  every  whispering  wind. 

They  all  speak  of  him  who  made  them  ;  they  all 
tell  us,  he  is  very  good. 

We  cannot  see  God,  for  he  is  invisible ;  but  we 
can  see  his  works,  and  worship  his  footsteps  in  the 
green  sod. 

They  that  know  the  most,  will  praise  God  the  best ; 
but  which  of  us  can  number  half  his  works  ? 


HYMN  X. 

Look  at  that  spreading  oak,  the  pride  of  the  village 
green  !  its  trunk  is  massy,  its  branches  are  strong. 
Its  roots,  like  crooked  fangs,  strike  deep  into  the  soil, 
and  support  its  huge  bulk.  The  birds  build  among 
the  boughs ;  the  cattle  repose  beneath  its  shade ;  the 
neighbours  form  groups  beneath  the  shelter  of  its 
green  canopy.  The  old  men  point  it  out  to  their 
children,  but  they  themselves  remember  not  its  growth : 
generations  of  men  one  after  another  have  been  born 
and  died,  and  this  son  of  the  forest  has  remained 
the  same,  defying  the  storms  of  two  hundred  winters, 


70  HYMNS  IN  PROSE. 

Yet  this  large  tree  was  once  a  little  acorn  ;  small  in 
size,  insignificant  in  appearance  ;  such  as  you  are  now 
picking  up  upon  the  grass  beneath  it.  Such  an  acorn, 
whose  cup  can  only  contain  a  drop  or  two  of  dew, 
contained  the  whole  oak.  All  its  massy  trunk,  all  its 
knotty  branches,  all  its  multitude  of  leaves  were  in  that 
acorn  ;  it  grew,  it  spread,  it  unfolded  itself  by  degrees, 
it  received  nourishment  from  the  rain,  and  the  dews, 
and  the  well  adapted  soil,  but  it  was  all  there.  Rain, 
and  dews,  and  soil,  could  not  raise  an  oak  without  the 
acorn  ;  nor  could  they  make  the  acorn  any  thing  but 
an  oak. 

The  mind  of  a  child  is  like  the  acorn ;  its  powers 
are  folded  up,  they  do  not  yet  appear,  but  they  are 
all  there.  The  memory,  the  judgment,  the  invention, 
the  feeling  of  right  and  wrong,  are  all  in  the  mind  of 
a  child ;  of  a  little  infant  just  born  ;  but  they  are  not 
expanded,  you  cannot  perceive  them. 

Think  of  the  wisest  man  you  ever  knew  or  heard 
of ;  think  of  the  greatest  man  ;  think  of  the  most 
learned  man,  who  speaks  a  number  of  languages  and 
can  find  out  hidden  things  ;  think  of  a  man  who  stands 
like  that  tree,  sheltering  and  protecting  a  number  of 
his  fellow  men,  and  then  say  to  yourself,  the  mind  of 
that  man  was  once  like  mine,  his  thoughts  were  child- 
ish like  my  thoughts,  nay,  he  was  like  the  babe  just 
born,  which  knows  nothing,  remembers  nothing,  which 
cannot  distinguish  good  from  evil,  nor  truth  from  false- 
hood. 

If  you  had  only  seen  an  acorn,  you  could  never 
guess  at  the  form  and  size  of  an  oak  :  if  you  had 
never  conversed  with  a  wise  man,  you  could  form  no 
idea  of  him  from  the  mute  and  helpless  infant. 

Instruction  is  the  food  of  the  mind  ;  it  is  like  the 
dew  and  the  rain  and  the  rich  soil.  As  the  soil  and 
the  rain  and  the  dew  cause  the  tree  to  swell  and  put 


HYMNS  IN  PROSE.  71 

forth  its  tender  shoots,  so  do  books  and  study  and  dis- 
course feed  the  mind,  and  make  it  unfold  its  hidden 
powers. 

Reverence  therefore  your  own  mind  ;  receive  the 
nurture  of  instruction,  that  the  man  within  you  may 
grow  and  flourish.  You  cannot  guess  how  excellent 
he  may  become. 

It  was  long  before  this  oak  showed  its  greatness  ; 
years  passed  away,  and  it  had  only  shot  a  little  way 
above  the  ground,  a  child  might  have  plucked  it  up 
with  his  little  hands  ;  it  was  long  before  any  one  call- 
ed it  a  tree  ;  and  it  is  long  before  the  child  becomes  a 
man. 

The  acorn  might  have  perished  in  the  ground,  the 
young  tree  might  have  been  shorn  of  its  graceful 
boughs,  the  twig  might  have  bent,  and  the  tree  would 
have  been  crooked  ;  but  if  it  grew  at  all,  it  could  have 
been  nothing  but  an  oak,  it  would  not  have  been  grass 
or  flowers,  which  live  their  season  and  then  perish 
from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

The  child  may  be  a  foolish  man,  he  may  be  a 
wicked  man,  but  he  must  be  a  man ;  his  nature  is  not 
that  of  any  inferior  creature,  his  soul  is  not  akin  to 
the  beasts  which  perish. 

O  cherish  then  this  precious  mind,  feed  it  with 
truth,  nourish  it  with  knowledge ;  it  comes  from  God, 
it  is  made  in  his  image  ;  the  oak  will  last  for  centuries 
of  years,  but  the  mind  of  man  is  made  for  immortality. 

Respect  in  the  infant  the  future  man.  Destroy  not 
in  the  man  the  rudiments  of  an  angel. 


IJ  HYMNS  IN  PROSE. 


HYMN  XL 


The  golden  orb  of  the  sun  is  sunk  behind  the  hills, 
the  colours  fade  away  from  the  western  sky,  and  the 
shades  of  evening  fall  fast  around  me. 

Deeper  and  deeper  they  stretch  over  the  plain  ;  I 
look  at  the  grass,  it  is  no  longer  green  ;  the  flowers 
are  no  more  tinted  with  various  hues  ;  the  houses,  the 
trees,  the  cattle,  are  all  lost  in  the  distance.  The 
dark  curtain  of  night  is  let  down  over  the  works  of 
God  ;  they  are  blotted  out  from  the  view,  as  if  they 
were  no  longer  there. 

Child  of  little  observation  !  canst  thou  see  nothing 
because  thou  canst  not  see  grass  and  flowers,  trees  and 
cattle  ?  Lift  up  thine  eyes  from  the  ground  shaded 
with  darkness,  to  the  heavens  that  are  stretched  over 
thy  head  ;  see  how  the  stars  one  by  one  appear  and 
light  up  the  vast  concave. 

There  is  the  moon  bending  her  bright  horns  like  a 
silver  bow,  and  shedding  her  mild  light,  like  liquid 
silver  over  the  blue  firmament. 

There  is  Venus,  the  evening  and  the  morning  star  ; 
and  the  Pleiades,  and  the  Bear  that  never  sets,  and 
the  Pole  star  that  guides  the  mariner  over  the  deep. 

Now  the  mantle  of  darkness  is  over  the  earth ;  the 
last  little  gleam  of  twilight  is  faded  away  ;  the  lights 
are  extinguished  in  the  cottage  windows,  but  the  firma- 
ment burns  with  innumerable  fires ;  every  little  star 
twinkles  in  its  place.  If  you  begin  to  count  them, 
they  are  more  than  you  can  number ;  they  are  like 
the  sands  of  the  sea  shore. 

The  telescope  shows  you  far  more,  and  there  are 
thousands  and  ten  thousands  of  stars  which  no  tele- 
scope has  ever  reached. 


HYMNS  IN  PROSE.  73 

Now  Orion  heaves  his  bright  shoulder  above  the 
horizon,  and  Sirius,  the  dog  star,  follows  him,  the 
brightest  of  the  train. 

Look  at  the  milky  way,  it  is  a  field  of  brightness  : 
its  pale  light  is  composed  of  myriads  of  burning  suns. 

All  these  are  God's  families :  he  gives  the  sun  to 
shine  with  a  ray  of  his  own  glory :  he  marks  the  path 
of  the  planets,  he  guides  their  wanderings  through  the 
sky,  and  traces  out  their  orbit  with  the  finger  of  his 
power. 

If  you  were  to  travel  as  swift  as  an  arrow  from  a 
bow,  and  to  travel  on  further  and  further  still,  for  mil- 
lions of  years,  you  would  not  be  out  of  the  creation  of 
God. 

New  suns  in  the  depth  of  space  would  still  be  burn- 
ing round  you,  and  other  planets  fulfilling  their  ap- 
pointed course. 

Lift  up  thine  eyes,  child  of  earth,  for  God  has  given 
thee  a  glimpse  of  heaven. 

The  light  of  one  sun  is  withdrawn,  that  thou  mayest 
see  ten  thousand.  Darkness  is  spread  over  the  earth, 
that  thou  mayest  behold,  at  a  distance,  the  regions  of 
eternal  day. 

This  earth  has  a  variety  of  inhabitants ;  the  sea, 
the  air,  the  surface  of  the  ground,  swarm  with  crea- 
tures of  different  natures,  sizes,  and  powers ;  to  know 
a  very  little  of  them,  is  to  be  wise  among  the  sons  of 
men. 

What  then,  thinkest  thou,  are  the  various  forms  and 
natures  and  senses  and  occupations  of  the  peopled 
universe  ? 

Who  can  tell  the  birth  and  generation  of  so  many 
worlds  ?  who  can  relate  their  histories  ?  who  can  de- 
scribe their  inhabitants  ? 

Canst  thou  measure  infinity  with  a  line  ?  canst  thou 
grasp  the  circle  of  infinite  space .? 
7 


<4  HYMNS  IN  PROSE. 

Yet  these  all  depend  upon  God,  they  hang  upon 
him  as  a  child  upon  the  breast  of  its  mother  ;  he  tem- 
pereth  the  heat  to  the  inhabitant  of  Mercury  ;  he  pro- 
videth  resources  against  the  cold  in  the  frozen  orb  of 
Saturn.  Doubt  not  that  he  provideth  for  all  beings 
that  he  has  made. 

Look  at  the  moon  when  it  walketh  in  brightness  ; 
2;aze  at  the  stars  when  they  are  marshalled  in  the 
firmament,  and  adore  the  Maker  of  so  many  worlds. 


HYMN  XII. 

It  is  now  Winter,  dead  Winter.  Desolation  and 
silence  reign  in  the  fields,  no  singing  of  birds  is  heard, 
no  humming  of  insects.  The  streams  murmur  ho 
longer ;  they  are  locked  up  in  frost. 

The  trees  lift  their  naked  boughs,  like  withered 
arms,  into  the  bleak  sky  ;  the  green  sap  no  longer 
rises  in  their  veins ;  the  flowers  and  the  sweet  smell- 
ing shrubs  are  decayed  to  their  roots. 

The  sun  himself  looks  cold  and  cheerless ;  he 
gives  light  only  enough  to  show  the  universal  desola- 
tion. 

Nature,  child  of  God,  mourns  for  her  children.  A 
little  while  ago,  and  she  rejoiced  in  her  offspring ;  the 
rose  shed  its  perfume  upon  the  gale  ;  the  vine  gave 
its  fruit ;  her  children  were  springing  and  blooming 
around  her,  on  every  lawn  and  every  green  bank. 

O  Nature,  beautiful  Nature,  beloved  child  of  God, 
why  dost  thou  sit  mourning  and  desolate  ?  Has  thy 
father  forsaken  thee,  has  he  left  thee  to  perish  ?  Art 
thou  no  longer  the  object  of  his  care  ? 

He  has  not  forsaken  thee,  O  Nature ;  thou  art  his 
beloved  child,  the  eternal  image  of  his  perfections; 


HYMNS   IN  PROSE.  (O 

his  own  beauty  is  spread  over  thee,  the  light  of  his 
countenance  is  shed  upon  thee. 

Thy  children  shall  live  again,  they  shall  spring  up 
and  bloom  around  thee  ;  the  rose  shall  again  breathe 
its  sweetness  on  the  soft  air,  and  from  the  bosom  of 
the  ground,  verdure  shall  spring  forth. 

And  dost  thou  not  mourn,  ()  Nature,  for  thy  hu- 
man births  ;  for  thy  sons  and  thy  daughters  that  sleep 
under  the  sod  ;  and  shall  they  not  also  revive  ?  Shall 
the  rose  and  the  myrtle  bloom  anew,  and  shall  man 
perish  ?  Shall  goodness  sleep  in  the  ground,  and  the 
light  of  wisdom  be  quenched  in  the  dust,  and  shall 
tears  be  shed  over  them  in  vain  ? 

They  also  shall  live  ;  their  winter  shall  pass  away ; 
they  shall  bloom  again.  The  tears  of  thy  children 
shall  be  dried  up  when  the  eternal  year  proceeds. 
Oh  come  that  eternal  year  ! 


HYMN  XIII. 

Child  of  mortality,  whence  comest  thou  ?  why  is 
thy  countenance  sad,  and  why  are  thine  eyes  red 
with  weeping  ? 

I  have  seen  the  rose  in  its  beauty  ;  it  spread  its 
leaves  to  the  morning  sun — I  returned,  it  was  dying 
upon  its  stalk  :  the  grace  of  the  form  of  it  was  gone  ; 
its  loveliness  was  vanished  away  ;  the  leaves  thereof 
were  scattered  on  the  ground,  and  no  one  gathered 
them  again. 

A  stately  tree  grew  on  the  plain ;  its  branches  were 
covered  with  verdure ;  its  boughs  spread  wide  and 
made  a  goodly  shadow ;  the  trunk  was  like  a  strong 
pillar  ;  the  roots  were  like  crooked  fangs. — I  returned, 
the  verdure  was  nipt  by  the  east  wind  ;  the  branches 


76  HYMNS  IN  PROSE. 

were  lopt  away  by  the  ax ;  the  worm  had  made  itb 
way  into  the  trunk,  and  the  heart  thereof  was  decay- 
ed ;  it  mouldered  away,  and  fell  to  the  ground. 

I  have  seen  the  insects  sporting  in  the  sun-shine, 
and  darting  along  the  streams ;  their  wings  glittered 
with  gold  and  purple  ;  their  bodies  shone  like  the 
green  emerald  :  they  were  more  numerous  than  I 
could  count;  their  motions  were  quicker  than  my 
eye  could  glance — I  returned,  they  were  brushed  into 
the  pool ;  they  were  perishing  with  the  evening  breeze  ; 
the  swallow  had  devoured  them  ;  the  pike  had  seized 
them  ;  there  were  none  found  of  so  great  a  multitude. 

I  have  seen  man  in  the  pride  of  his  strength ;  his 
cheeks  glowed  with  beauty ;  his  limbs  were  full  of 
activity  ;  he  leaped  ;  he  walked  ;  he  ran  ;  he  rejoiced 
in  that  he  was  more  excellent  than  those — I  returned, 
he  lay  stiff  and  cold  on  the  bare  ground  ;  his  feet 
could  no  longer  move,  nor  his  hands  stretch  themselves 
out ;  his  life  was  departed  from  him  ;  and  the  breath 
out  of  his  nostrils  : — therefore  do  I  weep  because 
DEATH  is  in  the  world  ;  the  spoiler  is  among  the 
works  of  God  :  all  that  is  made,  must  be  destroyed  ; 
all  that  is  born,  must  die  :  let  me  alone,  for  I  will  weep 
yet  longer. 


HYMN  XIV. 

I  have  seen  the  flower  withering  on  the  stalk,  and 
its  bright  leaves  spread  on  the  ground. — I  looked 
again  and  it  sprung  forth  afresh  ;  the  stem  was  crown- 
ed with  new  buds,  and  the  sweetness  thereof  filled  the 
air. 

I  have  seen  the  sun  set  in  the  west,  and  the  shades 
of  night  shut  in   the   wide   horizon  ;  there  was  no 


HYMNS   IIS   PKOSE.  77 

colour,  nor  shape,  nor  beauty,  nor  music  ;  gloom  and 
darkness  brooded  around — I  looked,  the  sun  broke 
forth  again  from  the  east,  he  gilded  the  mountain  tops  ; 
the  lark  rose  to  meet  him  from  her  low  nest,  and  the 
shades  of  darkness  fell  away. 

I  have  seen  the  insect  being  come  to  its  full  size, 
languish  and  refuse  to  eat :  it  spun  itself  a  tomb,  and 
was  shrouded  in  the  silken  cone  ;  it  lay  without  feet, 
or  shape  or  power  to  move. 

I  looked  again,  it  had  burst  its  tomb  :  it  was  full  oi 
life,  and  sailed  on  coloured  wings  through  the  soft  air  ; 
it  rejoiced  in  its  new  being. 

Thus  shall  it  be  with  thee,  O  man  !  and  so  shall 
thy  life  be  renewed. 

Beauty  shall  spring  up  out  of  ashes ;  and  life  out 
of  the  dust. 

A  little  while  shalt  thou  lie  in  the  ground,  as  the 
seed  lieth  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth  :  but  thou  shalt 
be  raised  again;  and,  if  thou  art  good,  thou  shalt 
never  die  any  more. 

Who  is  he  that  cometh  to  burst  open  the  prison 
doors  of  the  tomb  :  to  bid  the  dead  awake,  and  to 
gather  his  redeemed  from  the  four  winds  of  heaven  ? 

He  descendeth  on  a  fiery  cloud  \  the  sound  of  a 
trumpet  goeth  before  him ;  thousands  of  angels  are 
on  his  right  hand. 

It  is  Jesus,  the  Son  of  God  ;  the  Saviour  of  men ; 
the  friend  of  the  good. 

He  cometh  in  the  glory  of  his  Father ;  he  hath  re- 
ceived power  from  on  high. 

Mourn  not,  therefore,  child  of  immortality ; — for 
the  spoiler,  the  cruel  spoiler,  that  laid  waste  the  works 
of  God,  is  subdued :  Jesus  hath  conquered  death  : 
child  of  immortality  !  mourn  no  longer. 

7* 


HYMNS  IN  PROSE. 


HYMN  XV. 


The  rose  is  sweet,  but  it  is  surrounded  with  thorns  : 
the  lily  of  the  valley  is  fragrant,  but  it  springeth  up 
amongst  the  brambles. 

The  spring  is  pleasant,  but  it  is  soon  past  :  the 
summer  is  bright,  but  the  winter  destroyeth  the  beauty 
thereof. 

The  rainbow  is  very  glorious,  but  it  soon  vanish eth 
away  :  life  is  good,  but  it  is  quickly  swallowed  up  in 
death. 

There  is  a  land  where  the  roses  are  without  thorns, 
where  the  flowers  are  not  mixed  with  brambles. 

In  that  land,  there  is  eternal  spring,  and  light  with- 
out any  cloud. 

The  tree  of  life  groweth  in  the  midst  thereof; 
rivers  of  pleasures  are  there,  and  flowers  that  never 
fade. 

Myriads  of  happy  spirits  are  there,  and  surround 
the  throne  of  God  with  a  perpetual  hymn. 

The  angels  with  their  golden  harps  sing  praises 
continually,  and  the  cherubim  fly  on  wings  of  fire. 

This  country  is  Heaven  :  it  is  the  country  of  those 
that  are  good ;  and  nothing  that  is  wicked  must  in- 
habit there. 

The  toad  must  not  spit  its  venom  amongst  turtle 
doves :  nor  the  poisonous  hen-bane  grow  amongst 
sweet  flowers. 

Neither  must  any  one  that  doeth  ill  enter  into  that 
good  land. 

This  earth  is  pleasant,  for  it  is  God's  earth,  and  it 
is  filled  with  many  delightful  things. 

But  that  country  is  far  better  :  there  we  shall  not 
grieve  any  more,  nor  be  sick  any  more,  nor  do  wrong 


HY'MNS  IN  PROSE.  79 

any  more  ;  there  the  cold  of  winter  shall  not  wither 
ns,  nor  the  heats  of  summer  scorch  us. 

In  that  country  there  are  no  wars  nor  quarrels,  but 
all  love  one  another  with  dear  love. 

When  our  parents  and  friends  die,  and  are  laid  in 
the  cold  ground,  we  see  them  here  no  more  ;  but 
there  we  shall  embrace  them  again,  and  live  with 
them,  and  be  separated  no  more. 

There  we  shall  meet  all  good  men,  whom  we  read 
of  in  holy  books. 

There  we  shall  see  Abraham,  the  called  of  God, 
the  father  of  the  faithful ;  and  Moses  after  his  long 
wanderings  in  the  Arabian  desert ;  and  Elijah,  the 
prophet  of  God  ;  and  Daniel,  who  escaped  the  lion's 
den ;  and  there  the  son  of  Jesse,  the  shepherd  king, 
the  sweet  singer  of  Israel. 

They  loved  God  on  earth  ;  they  praised  him  on 
earth  :  but  in  that  country  they  will  praise  him  better, 
and  love  him  more. 

There  we  shall  see  Jesus,  who  is  gone  before  us  to 
that  happy  place  ;  and  there  we  shall  behold  the  glory 
of  the  high  God. 

We  cannot  see  him  here,  but  we  will  love  him 
here ;  we  must  be  now  on  earth,  but  we  will  often 
think  on  heaven. 

That  happy  land  is  our  home,  we  are  to  be  here 
but  for  a  little  while,  and  there  for  ever,  even  for  ages 
of  eternal  vears. 


CRITICAL  ESSAY 


ON  THE 


TATLER,  SPECTATOR,  &c 


CRITICAL  ESSAY.* 


It  is  equally  true  of  books  as  of  their  authors,  that 
one  generation  passeth  away  and  another  cometh. 
Whoever  has  lived  long  enough  to  compare  one  race 
of  men  with  that  which  has  preceded  it,  will  have  ob- 
served a  change,  not  only  in  the  tastes  and  habitudes 
of  common  life,  but  in  the  fashion  of  their  studies,  and 
their  course  of  general  reading.  Books  influence 
manners ;  and  manners,  in  return,  influence  the  taste 
for  books. 

Books  make  a  silent  and  gradual,  but  a  sure  change 
in  our  ideas  and  opinions ;  and  as  new  authors  are 
continually  taking  possession  of  the  public  mind,  and 
old  ones  falling  into  disuse,  new  associations  insensibly 
take  place,  and  shed  their  influence  unperceived  over 
our  taste,  our  manners,  and  our  morals.  If,  for  in- 
stance, the  parent  of  the  last  age  would  put  Fenelon 
into  the  hands  of  his  child,  and  the  parent  of  the  pre- 
sent day  would  give  him  Berquin  ;  each  with  a  view 
of  impressing  the  same  general  sentiments  of  piety 
and  benevolence  :  yet  their  offspring  will  be  pupils 
of  a  different  school,  and  their  moral  ideas  will  have 
some  shades  of  difference.  This  new  infusion  of 
taste  and  moral  sentiment  acts  in  its  turn  upon  the 
relish  for  books  ;  and  thus  the  fame  of  writers  is  ex- 
posed to  continual  fluctuation.     Nor  does  this  remark 


*  Originally  prefixed   to  "  Selections  from  the  Tatler,  Spectator," 
4*c.  chiefly  designed  for  the  benefit  of  Young  Persons. 


84  CRITICAL  ESSAY. 

apply  only  to  those  ephemeral  publications,  which, 
either  from  the  nature  of  the  subject  or  the  mediocrity 
of  its  execution,  live  their  day,  and  are  then  buried  in 
oblivion  ;  but  to  books  that  have  been  the  favourites 
of  the  public,  and  'the  very  glass  by  which  its  noble 
youth  did  dress  themselves.'  Books  that  were  in 
every  one's  hands,  and  that  have  contributed  to  form 
our  relish  for  literature  itself;  these  are  laid  aside,  as 
philosophy  opens  new  viens  of  thought,  or  fashion  and 
caprice  direct  the  taste  of  the  public  into  a  different 
channel.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  a  work  of  the  first 
excellence  cannot  perish.  It  will  continue  to  be 
respected  as  a  classic :  but  it  will  no  longer  be  the 
book  which  every  one  who  reads,  is  expected  to  be 
acquainted  with,  to  which  allusions  are  often  made, 
and  readily  understood  in  conversation  ;  it  loses  the 
precious  privilege  of  occupying  the  minds  of  youth  : 
in  short,  it  is  withdrawn  from  the  parlour-window,  and 
laid  upon  the  shelf  in  honourable  repose.  It  ceases 
to  be  current  coin,  but  is  preserved  like  a  medal  in 
the  cabinets  of  the  curious. 

This  revolution,  the  Spectators,  with  the  other  sets 
of  papers  by  the  same  hands,  appear  to  the  Editor  to 
have  undergone.  When  those  were  young  who  now 
are  old,  no  books  were  so  popular,  particularly  with 
the  female  sex.  They  were  the  favourite  volumes 
in  a  young  lady's  library ;  and  probably  the  very  first 
that,  after  the  Bible,  she  would  have  thought  of  pur- 
chasing. Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  and  the  other  char- 
acters of  the  club  were  '  familiar  in  our  mouths  as 
household  names  ; '  and  every  little  circumstance  re- 
lated of  them,  remained  indelibly  engraven  on  our 
memories.  From  the  papers  of  Addison  we  imbibed 
our  first  relish  for  wit  ;  from  his  criticisms  we  formed 
our  first  standard  of  taste  ;  and  from  his  delineations 
we  drew  our  first  ideas  of  manners.     It  requires  little 


CRITICAL  ESSAY.  85 

attention  to  be  convinced,  that  this  is  now  far  from 
being  the  case.  It  is  not  difficult  to  meet  with  those 
among  the  rising  generation  who  have  only  seen  here 
and  there  an  occasional  paper  of  a  publication  once  so 
generally  diffused  ;  and  it  now  and  then  happens,  that 
a  story  from  the  Tatler  is  produced  as  new,  in  polite 
company,  without  detection.  Various  causes  have 
contributed  to  this  change.  When  these  periodical 
papers  were  first  published,  the  plan  itself  was  new. 
It  has  since  been  adopted  by  various  writers  with  more 
or  less  success,  till  the  frame-work  is  worn  out,  or, 
if  the  reader  please,  till  the  canvass  of  the  panorama 
is  become  threadbare.  Style  has  also  been  purified  and 
refined.  Criticism  has  become  more  profound.  Es- 
say-writing has  been  largely  cultivated.  Moral  senti- 
ments of  weight  and  importance  have  become  trite 
from  frequent  repetition.  The  talent  also  of  composi- 
tion is  more  common  than  it  was  a  century  ago  ;  and 
many  things  which  were  then  first  said,  have  since 
been  better  said.  Add  to  this,  that  much  of  the  wit 
and  lively  satire  of  these  papers  has  been  employed 
on  subjects  of  a  temporary  nature,  and  has  conse- 
quently lost  much  of  its  salt  and  pungency.  We  are 
no  longer  interested  in  the  contest  between  the  opera 
and  the  puppet  show.  We  can  only  guess,  how  much 
of  truth  and  how  much  of  invention  is  contained  in  the 
account  of  the  Mohawks  ;  and  we  are  less  struck  with 
the  whimsical  effect  of  party-patching,  when  the  mode 
itself  is  forgotten,  amidst  newer  inventions  of  capricious 
ornament,  and  more  modern  exhibitions  of  fashionable 
folly. 

It  is  also  to  be  considered,  that  the  more  effica- 
cious these  pieces  have  been, — and  no  doubt  they  have 
had  considerable  effect,  in  refining  the  taste  and  cor- 
recting the  manners  of  society, — the  sooner  will  they 
he  thrown  by  as  antiquated  or  useless.  Thus,  the 
8 


86  CRITICAL  ESSAY. 

very  success  of  a  book  may  hasten  the  period  oJ  n 
being  forgotten ;  and  the  completion  of  an  author's 
purpose  may  turn  out  to  be  the  ruin  of  his  fame. 
Addison  was  himself  aware  of  this  cause  of  a  diminu- 
tion of  popularity,  and  says,  in  one  of  his  essays,  that 
those  papers  which  attack  the  follies  of  the  day,  will, 
in  process  of  time,  become  like  old  plate  ;  the  weight 
will  remain,  but  the  fashion  will  be  lost. 

It  must  however  be  acknowledged,  that  a  great 
part  of  these  compositions  do  by  no  means  stand  upon 
so  high  a  ground  of  merit,  as  to  have  any  strong  claim 
upon  the  notice  of  the  present  age.  In  the  Tatlers 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  absolute  trifling  ;  and  the 
Spectators  themselves,  though  the  best  of  the  several 
sets,  are  very  unequally  written, — as  indeed  might 
be  expected  from  the  various  hands  engaged  in  the 
work.  Steele  was  an  entertaining  rather  than  a  fine 
writer  ;  and  none  of  his  coadjutors  (the  immortal  Ad- 
dison alone  excepted)  would  now  be  thought  much 
above  the  common  run  of  essay-writers  in  a  newspa- 
per or  a  magazine.  Many  inaccuracies,  and  even 
vulgarisms,  blemish  the  pages  of  Steele,  which  an  au- 
thor of  less  celebrity  would  now  avoid.  We  are 
grown  more  accurate  in  our  definitions,  more  discrim- 
inating in  our  investigations,  more  pure  in  our  diction, 
more  fastidious  in  the  ornaments  of  style  ;  we  possess 
standards  of  excellence  of  every  kind  to  refer  to, 
books  multiply  on  our  hands,  and  we  willingly  consign 
to  oblivion  a  portion  of  the  old,  to  make  room  for  the 
increasing  demands  of  the  new. 

This  being  the  case,  it  has  been  thought  that  a 
Selection  from  the  Tatlers,  Spectators,  and  Guardians, 
comprising  all  those  papers  in  which  the  peculiar  spirit 
and  excellence  of  these  works  chiefly  resides,  might 
be  no  unacceptable  present  to  the  world  in  general, 
and  particularly  to  yoini'j:  people  of  both  sexes,  wh,j 


CRITICAL  ESSAY.  87 

)  not  happen  to  possess  the  originals,  and  who,  if 
they  did,  would  want  a  guide,  in  so  miscellaneous  a 
work,  to  direct  them  to  what  is  best  worth  their  notice. 
Let  it  not  be  imagined  that  such  a  Selection  is  pre- 
sumptuously intended  to  supersede  the  original  vol- 
umes ;  they  must  always  find  their  place  in  a  well 
furnished  library  ;  but  the  generality  of  readers,  of 
whose  various  occupations  the  cultivation  of  literature 
makes  only  a  part,  (and  of  this  class  are  nearly  all 
women,  and  most  men  who  are  not  devoted  to  pro- 
fessional studies,)  may  perhaps  be  well  content  to  have 
some  of  the  most  beautiful  compositions  in  our  lan- 
guage presented  to  them,  without  being  obliged  to  lose 
their  own  time  in  separating  them  from  a  mass  of 
uninteresting  matter.  The  French  are  very  fond  of 
extracting  what  they  call  V  esprit  oV  un  auteur,  which 
may  be  translated  the  essence  of  a  writer.  In  this, 
which  may  be  compared  to  the  essential  oils  of  plants, 
resides  the  genuine  and  distinguishing  flavour  of  an 
author's  wit ;  but  it  commonly  bears  a  very  small  pro- 
portion to  his  bulk.  Whole  libraries  might  by  this 
process  be  distilled  down  to  a  few  pocket  volumes ; 
as  a  single  vial  of  attar  of  roses  contains  the  precious 
product  of  many  acres.  Time  is  an  admirable  chy- 
mist  in  this  way.  We  are  apt  to  lament  the  waste  he 
has  made  among  the  productions  of  ancient  genius  : 
but  it  is  probable,  if  we  had  an  opportunity  of  inspect- 
ing them,  we  should  find  that,  in  reality,  nearly  all 
are  preserved  to  us  that  are  most  worth  preservation ; 
and  that  what  has  perished,  is  chiefly  made  up  of  the 
residuum  of  science,  and  the  caput  mortuum  of  litera- 
ture. It  is  true,  indeed,  that  there  is  a  light  in  which 
papers  that  describe  the  manners  and  little  incidents 
of  the  day,  rise  in  value  as  their  contents  become 
more  obsolete.  With  what  curiosity  should  we  pe- 
ruse a  Roman  newspaper,  or  a  critique  upon  Roscius, 


*8  CRITICAL  ESSAY. 

or  a  conversation  at  the  toilette  of  Aspasia  !  To  an 
antiquary,  the  Spectators  are  already  a  great  source  of 
information,  and  five  hundred  years  hence  will  be 
invaluable  ;  though  it  must  be  observed,  some  discern- 
ment is  necessary  to  separate  the  playful  exaggera- 
tions of  humour,  from  the  real  facts  on  which  they  are 
grounded. 

It  may  be  proper  to  preface  this  Selection  with 
some  account  of  the  original  publications.  The  Tat- 
ler  was  undertaken  by  Sir  Richard  Steele,  under  the 
fictitious  name  of  Isaac  BickerstafF;  which  he  assumed, 
as  he  tells  us  himself  in  the  dedication  to  the  first 
volume,  in  order  to  take  advantage  of  the  popularity  the 
name  had  acquired,  from  its  having  been  made  use  of 
by  Swift  in  his  humurous  predictions  relative  to  poor 
Partridge,  the  almanac-maker.  The  first  number 
was  published  April  12,  1709.  Addison  was  at  this 
time  in  Ireland,  secretary  to  Wharton  the  lord-lieu- 
tenant. He  is  said  to  have  discovered  his  friend  when 
he  got  to  the  sixth  number,  by  a  remark  on  Virgil, 
which  he  recollected  having  communicated  to  him. 
From  that  time  Addison  enriched  it  with  occasional 
pieces,  though  he  seems  to  have  confined  his  assistance 
to  loose  hints  and  sketches  during  the  earlier  period  of 
the  work.  It  is  not  till  the  second  volume  that  we 
meet  with  any  entire  paper  in  his  best  style.  But  the 
hand  of  Swift,  who  then  acted  with  the  whigs,  and 
was  intimate  with  Steele,  is  frequently  discernible. 
The  Verses  on  a  Morning  in  Town,  and  on  A  City 
Shower,  which  are  printed  in  his  works,  made  their 
first  appearance  here.  The  remarks  on  various 
preachers  then  in  vogue,  No.  66,  contain  much  of  the 
substance  of  his  .Letter  to  a  Clergyman ;  and  the  first 
hint  and  germ  of  his  Polite  Conversation  is  evidently 
to  be  seen  in  the  repartees  of  Miss  Biddy  and  Miss 
Sly,  which,  for  that  reason  only,  is  inserted  here.     It 


CRITICAL  ESSAY.  89 

shows  what  pains  Swift  took  with  his  pieces,  when  we 
find  him  working  up  this  single  thought  into  a  volume. 
The  next  year  Swift  left  the  whigs,  and  joined  with 
Mrs.  Manley  and  others  in  a  party  paper  called,  The 
Examiner,  conducted  with  great  virulence  on  the 
other  side.  The  Tatler  was  a  kind  of  newspaper,  as 
well  as  an  essay  :  it  was  published  three  times  a  week, 
and  sold,  there  being  then  no  stamp-duty,  at  the  low 
price  of  a  penny. 

Addison  kept  himself  concealed,  and  was  only  sus- 
pected of  being  one  of  the  authors,  till  its  appearance 
in  volumes.  This  publication  gave,  as  it  were,  the 
dawn  and  promise  of  its  successor,  the  Spectator ; 
and  indeed  there  are  papers  in  it,  equal  in  humour  to 
any  of  the  latter :  as  the  account  of  the  freezing  of 
words  in  Nova  Zembla,  the  Court  of  Honour,  and 
some  others  :  but,  in  general,  the  wit  is  local  and  tem- 
porary, the  style  negligent ;  and  even  the  strain  of  the 
graver  papers  rather  gives  the  idea  of  a  wit  who 
lashes  the  town,  than  an  elegant  moralist  who  instructs 
the  world.  The  Tatler  abounds  in  personalities.  To 
some  of  these,  the  clue  cannot  now  be  recovered,  and 
of  others  the  interest  has  long  since  been  lost.  Party 
spirit  also,  at  the  time  these  papers  were  published, 
ran  very  high  ;  the  whigs  and  tories  were  so  nearly 
balanced,  that  they  maintained  for  some  time  an  equal 
struggle,  which  at  length  ended  in  the  complete  defeat 
of  the  whigs,  the  disgrace  of  the  duke  of  Marlborough, 
and  the  forming  that  ministry  which  directed  the  four 
last  years  of  queen  Anne.  Steele  took  a  decided 
part  in  favour  of  the  whigs,  and  introduced  a  paper 
against  Harley,  which  lost  him  his  place  of  Gazetteer. 
Weary,  perhaps,  of  the  responsibility  of  a  paper,  of 
which  he  wras  now  well  known  to  be  the  editor,  and  of 
being  personally  threatened,  as  he  often  was,  for  the 
liberties  he  took  with  living  characters,  he  suddenly 
8* 


90  CRITICAL  ESSAV. 

dropped  the  work  on  January  2,  1710.  It  revived  in 
two  months'  time,  under  better  auspices  and  with  new 
associates,  and  bore  the  title  of  the  Spectator.  Swift 
was  by  this  time  completely  alienated  from  his  old 
friends  ;  but  his  defection  was  more  than  compensated 
by  the  regular  assistance  of  Addison.  The  new  plan 
was  better  concerted,  the  authors  felt  their  strength, 
they  had  experienced  how  popular  this  way  of  writing 
was  capable  of  becoming,  and  they  determined  to 
keep  it  free  from  personal  satire  and  party  politics. 
This  in  general  they  did,  and  it  was  laid  on  the 
queen's  table  at  breakfast.  It  is  not  difficult,  however, 
for  a  skilful  reader  to  discern  in  the  general  turn  of 
sentiment,  the  political  complexion  of  the  writers. 
The  town  soon  found  out  to  whom  they  were  obliged 
for  their  entertainment;  and  an  elegant  compliment 
was  paid  to  the  Spectator  in  the  following  epigram  : 

When  first  the  Tatler  to  a  mute  was  turn'd, 
Great  Britain  for  her  Censor's  silence  mourn'd ; 
Robb'd  of  his  sprightly  beams,   she  wept  the  night, 
Till  the  Spectator  rose  and  blazed  as  bright. 
So  the  first  man  the  sun's  first  setting  view'd, 
And  sigh'd — till  circling  day  his  joys  renew'd  ; 
Yet  doubtful  how  that  second  sun  to  name, 
Whether  a  bright  successor  or  the  same  : 
So  we ;  but  now  from  this  suspense  are  freed, 
Since  all  agree,  who  both  with  judgment  read, 
'T  is  the  same  sun,  and  does  himself  succeed. 

To  estimate  the  good  which  was  done  by  this  pub- 
lication, we  should  consider  the  state  of  society  at  the 
time  it  w<:s  Written.  Party  spirit  was  high  and  bitter, 
the  manners  of  the  wits  and  fashionable  young  men 
were  still  tinctured  with  the  licentiousness  of  the  court 
of  Charles  II.,  mixed  with  the  propensity  to  disorderly 
outrages  and  savage  frolics  incident  to  a  people,  who 


CRITICAL  ESSAY.  91 

were  still  amused  by  the  Bear  Garden,*  and  who  had 
not  yet  been  taught  to  bend  under  the  yoke  of  a  strict 
police.  The  stage  was  in  its  meridian  of  genius  and 
fashion,  but  disgraced  by  rant  and  grossness,  which 
offended  the  sober  and  excluded  the  strict.  Men 
lived  much  in  clubs,  and  of  course  drinking  was  com- 
mon. There  was  more  separation  than  at  present 
between  the  different  classes  of  society ;  and  each  was 
more  strongly  marked  with  the  peculiarities  of  his  pro- 
fession. There  were  learned  and  there  were  elegant 
women ;  but  manners  had  not  received  a  general 
polish,  nor  had  women  the  advantage  of  a  general 
cultivation.  Genius  had  already  attained  its  perfec- 
tion, but  the  reign  of  taste  may  be  said  to  have  com- 
menced with  Addison.  The  coadjutors  of  Addison 
and  Steele  in  this  work  were  Eustace  Budgell,  Tick- 
ell,  Hughes,  author  of  the  Siege  of  Damascus,  Henry 
Martin,  Pierce,  bishop  of  Rochester,  and  Mr.  Henry 
Grove,  of  Taunton  ;  occasionally  Mr.  Byrom,  Par- 
nell,  and  Pope,  wThose  Messiah  was  first  published 
here,  together  with  various  correspondents,  some 
known  and  others  unknown.  Of  all  these,  Addison 
was  the  head  of  gold.  His  merit  is  indeed  so  supe- 
rior to  that  of  his  associates,  that  their  labours  proba- 
bly live  to  this  day,  only  by  being  grafted  on  his  fame. 
Many  of  their  papers  are  pleasing  and  instructive  : 
yet,  if  by  any  accident  they  were  destroyed,  their  loss 
would  scarcely  be  felt  amongst  the  various  treasures 
.  of  English  literature ;  whereas  the  loss  of  Addison 
could   not  elsewhere  be  supplied,  and  would  make  a 

*  The  Bear  Garden  was  a  sort  of  amphitheatre  dedicated  to  bull- 
baiting,  bear-baiting,  prize-fighting,  and  similar  sports.  It  was  at- 
tended by  butchers,  drovers,  Sec.  &c.  ;  also  by  people  of  the  highest 
fashion,  for  whom  there  were  seats  set  apart,  ornamented  with  old 
tapestry  hangings,  the  price  of  which  was  half-a-croivn.  Its  neigh- 
bourhood was  notorious  for  pickpockets  and  infamous  women.  May 
Fair,  another  place  of  disorderly  resort,  was  abolished  in  1709. 


92  CRITICAL  ESSAY. 

chasm,  not  in  the  number  only,  but  in  the  species  of' 
our  fine  writers. 

Addison  was  one  of  a  cluster  of  men  of  genius, 
who,  flourishing  at  a  time  when  the  taste  of  the  nation 
was  forming  itself,  became,  in  their  different  walks, 
the  standards  of  literary  excellence.  His  peculiar 
portion  was  delicate  humour,  taste,  and  richness  of 
imagination :  these  were  all  enlisted  on  the  side  of 
virtue  and  good  manners.  In  these  periodical  papers 
he  assumed  the  title  of  Censor  ;  and  no  one  was  better 
qualified  for  so  delicate  and  useful  an  office.  Decency 
and  sobriety  of  behaviour  are  every  where  inculcated  : 
every  offensive  singularity,  every  outrage  of  the  licen- 
tious upon  the  sober  and  defenceless  part  of  society, 
is  held  up  to  reprobation :  marriage,  the  constant  butt 
of  the  wits  and  jest  of  the  stage,  is  treated  with  just  re- 
spect, and  its  duties  enforced.  Addison  says  of  him- 
self, that  as  Socrates  made  it  his  boast,  that  he  had 
drawn  down  philosophy  from  the  gods  to  dwell  among 
men,  so  he  shall  be  satisfied  to  have  it  said  of  him, 
that  he  had  brought  her  from  schools  and  colleges  to 
the  tea-table  and  the  dressing-room.  His  talents  were 
well  adapted  for  an  undertaking  of  this  sort.  His 
excellence  lay  not  so  much  in  the  depth  or  extent  of 
his  ideas,  as  in  his  pleasing  manner  of  communicating 
them  ;  in  the  splendour  he  diffused  over  a  serious — 
in  the  grace  with  which  he  touched  a  lighter  subject. 
Addison  had  a  large  portion  of  the  honey  of  Fenelon  : 
nourished  like  him  with  the  purest  flower  of  classical 
literature,  he  possessed  a  like  vivid  fancy  ;  a  similar 
fulness  and  richness  of  style.  But  he  also  possessed 
the  attic  salt  of  Lucian :  the  manner  of  this  author  is 
so  admirably  imitated  in  his  Menippus,  that  any  per- 
son, with  a  slight  knowledge  of  the  Greek  author, 
might  easily  be  induced  to  believe  the  dialogue  was 
really  translated  from  that  elegant  satirist. 


CRITICAL  ESSAY.  \)o 

Addison  had  a  wonderful  talent  in  working  up  a 
hint,  and  producing  a  most  beautiful  fancy-piece  from 
a  neglected  fragment,  a  slight  outline,  or  an  obscure 
tradition.  Of  this,  his  account  of  the  nation  of  the 
Amazons,  the  loves  of  Shalum  and  Hilpah,  and  the 
History  of  the  Lover's  Leap,  may  be  given  as  in- 
stances. Even  where  the  substance  is  borrowed,  as 
in  some  of  the  Eastern  tales  which  he  has  conde- 
scended to  illustrate ;  who  is  not  struck  with  their 
different  effect  as  clothed  in  his  style,  and  as  we  read 
them  in  the  bald  translation  of  the  Arabian  Tales? 
Whatever  he  touches,  he  turns  to  gold.  If  we  compare 
him  with  the  most  distinguished  of  his  contemporaries, 
(for  to  the  most  distinguished  alone  can  he  be  com- 
pared), we  shall  find  he  has  more  ease  and  simplicity 
than  Pope,  whose  wit  is  not  always  free  from  affecta- 
tion, and  whose  satire  is  frequently  splenetic,  some- 
times malignant.  Arbuthnot  and  Swift  had  as  much 
wit,  perhaps  a  freer  vein  of  humour ;  but  Swift  could 
not,  like  Addison,  ally  it  to  grace  and  soften  it  with 
amenity.  The  satire  of  Swift  is  caustic  and  contemp- 
tuous ;  that  of  Addison  is  so  sheathed  in  urbanity,  that 
it  scarcely  offends  those  whom  it  chastises. 

To  be  convinced  of  this,  we  need  only  turn  our 
thoughts  to  the  different  effect  produced  by  the  stric- 
tures of  each  upon  the  female  sex.  Both  are  perhaps 
in  reality  equally  severe,  and  by  their  pleasantries  be- 
tray a  contempt  for  a  sex,  they  probably  considered 
in  a  very  inferior  light :  yet  such  is  the  charm  of  man- 
ner, that  the  Spectator  has  ever  been  the  favourite 
of  the  toilette  and  the  dressing-room  ;  while  it  requires 
no  common  strength  of  mind  in  a  lady  to  overcome 
the  disgust  excited  by  the  supercilious  harshness  of  the 
Irish  Dean,  and  to  profit  by  lessons  delivered  with  so 
much  roughness.  When  Addison  rallies,  you  see  a 
satyr  peeping  over  the  shoulder  of  the  Graces.     His 


94  CRITICAL  ESSAY. 

wit  is  refined  ;  it  is  of  a  kind,  that  requires  and  exer- 
cises penetration  in  the  reader,  who  is  to  catch  his 
meaning  from  the  side  views  that  are  dexterously 
presented  to  him  :  for  the  author  never  laughs  himself. 
The  style  of  Addison  is  pure  and  clear  ;  rather  diffuse 
than  concentrated,  and  ornamented  to  the  highest  de- 
gree consistent  with  good  taste.  But  this  ornament 
consists  in  the  splendour  of  imagery,  not  in  the  ordon- 
nance  of  words  ;  his  readers  will  seek  in  vain  for  those 
sonorous  cadences  with  which  the  public  ear  has  been 
familiarised  since  the  writings  of  Dr.  Johnson.  They 
will  find  no  stately  magnificence  of  phrase,  no  triads 
of  sentences  artfully  balanced,  so  as  to  form  a  sweep 
of  harmony  at  the  close  of  a  period.  His  words  are 
genuine  English  :  he  deals  little  in  inversions,  and 
often  allows  himself  to  conclude  negligently  with  a 
trivia]  word.  The  fastidious  ear  may  occasionally  be 
offended  with  some  colloquial  phrase?,  and  some  ex- 
pressions which  would  not  now,  perhaps,  be  deemed 
perfectly  accurate  ;  the  remains  of  barbarisms  which 
he  more  than  any  one  had  laboured  to  banish  from 
good  writing  ;  but  the  best  judges  have  doubted, 
whether  our  language  has  not  lost,  more  than  it  has 
gained  since  his  time.  An  idiomatic  style  gives  a 
truth  and  spirit  to  a  composition,  that  is  but  ill  com- 
pensated by  an  elaborate  pomp,  which  sets  written 
composition  at  too  great  a  distance  from  speech,  for 
which  it  is  only  the  substitute.  There  is  perhaps  a 
little  too  much  of  what  the  French  call  persiflage,  in 
the  manner  in  which  he  conveys  his  advice  to  the 
female  part  of  his  readers  :  but  it  was  the  fashion  of 
that  age  to  address  women  in  a  style  of  gallantry,  un- 
der which  was  often  concealed  a  sly  ridicule.  Swift, 
in  his  surly  way,  used  to  say,  '  Let  him  fair  sex  it  to 
the  world's  end,  I  will  not  meddle  with  the  Spectator.' 
The  Essays  of  Addison  are  given  sometimes  in  sets. 


CRITICAL  ESSAY.  95 

and  sometimes  in  single  papers,  and  may  be  thrown 
into  different  classes  :  those  on  criticism,  on  moral  and 
religious  subjects,  fancy  pieces,  and  those  that  exhibit 
character,  life,  and  manners.  From  each  of  these, 
several  have  been  chosen  for  the  present  Selection. 
The  sets,  which  for  the  sake  of  variety  were  originally 
mingled  with  the  other  papers,  are  here  given  without 
interruption,  for  the  greater  convenienae  of  the  reader. 
Of  these,  the  first  is  the  Essay  on  true  and  false  Wit, 
in  six  papers.  These  strictures  will  appear  particu- 
larly seasonable,  if  we  recollect  how  much  the  taste 
for  point  and  verbal  wit  had  prevailed  in  the  punning 
reign  of  James  the  first,  and  among  the  minor  wits  of 
the  court  of  Charles  the  second.  Authors  then 
abounded  in  thought,  but  had  not  yet  lenrned  what  to 
reject.  Addison  has  seasoned  these  papers  with  a 
plentiful  share  of  the  quality  in  its  best  form,  which  is 
the  subject  of  them.  They  conclude  with  a  well 
imagined  allegory,  which  has  been  made  the  ground- 
work of  a  very  pretty  mock-heroic  poem  by  the  late 
J\Jr.  Cambridge,  entitled  The  Scribbleriad.  The 
Critique  on  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  is  more  elaborate, 
and  is  extended  through  18  papers.  For  this  task 
the  author  wras  qualified,  as  well  by  his  exquisite  natu- 
ral taste,  as  by  his  familiar  acquaintance  with  the 
Greek  and  Roman  classics,  and  the  laws  of  composi- 
tion ;  we  may  add  also,  by  his  serious  and  religious 
turn  of  mind,  a  circumstance  of  no  small  moment  in 
relishing  a  poem  the  basis  of  which  is  laid  in  scriptural 
mythology.  This  admirable  poem,  which  is  now7  the 
boast  of  every  Englishman,  was  at  that  time  but  little 
noticed.  Not  that  Addison,  as  some  seem  to  think, 
discovered  the  Paradise  Lost :  it  had  been  long 
enough  before  the  public  to  attract  the  notice  of 
judges  :  but  there  had  been  no  large  edition  before 
his  time,  and  many  circumstances  had  contributed  to 


96  CRITICAL  ESSAY. 

prevent  its  soon  becoming  a  popular  work.  Milton's 
political  character  was  for  some  time  obnoxious ; 
his  style  had  many  little  roughnesses,  and  many  scho- 
lastic terms  not  easily  understood.  His  poem  was  in 
blank  verse,  which  was  then  a  novelty  to  the  English 
reader,  as  was  also  the  nature  of  the  poem  itself;  for 
we  had  no  regular  epic,  and  the  common  reader  was 
not,  as  now,  familiarized,  through  the  medium  of  good 
translations,  with  Homer  and  Virgil.  It  was  there- 
fore a  necessary  preliminary,  to  explain  the  laws  and 
construction  of  epic  poetry  in  general  ;  after  which. 
in  a  pleasing  strain  of  liberal  and  elegant  criticism,  the 
essayist  goes  on  to  illustrate  the  beauties  of  his  author. 
The  many  brilliant  passages  that  are  quoted,  and 
brought  into  parallel  with  corresponding  ones  in  the 
ancient  poets,  chequer  the  page  with  a  pleasing  vari- 
ety, and,  by  familiarizing  the  reader  with  the  style  of 
Milton,  made  way  for  the  more  general  reception  of 
the  entire  poem.  Such  a  critique  has  certainly  less 
in  it  that  suits  the  present  day,  and  therefore  the 
editor  was  long  in  doubt  whether  to  admit  these  pa- 
pers in  the  present  Selection.  They  will  however  be 
found  useful  to  young  persons  in  laying  a  basis  of  just 
taste,  and  older  ones  might  have  regretted  the  omis- 
sion of  what  they  have  been  accustomed  to  admire. 
A  reader  of  the  present  day  will  be  apt  to  smile  to 
see  Blaekmore  mentioned,  as  he  is  by  Addison,  in  the 
same  page  with  Milton  ;  but  the  truth  is,  there  was  a 
great  mixture  of  party  spirit  in  the  cry  raised  by  the 
tory  wits  against  the  dulncss  of  Blackmore.  He  was 
too  prolific  a  poet ;  but  his  Creation  is  superior  to 
many  poems  which  those  wits  thought  proper  to  com- 
mend. Worse  authors  have  been  promised  immor- 
tality, and  much  better  have  failed  to  obtain  it. 

The  next  set  is  on  the  Pleasures  of  the  Imagina- 
tion.     This  piece  of  criticism  is  equally  calculated  to 


CRITICAL  ESSAY.  97 

enlighten  the  mind  by  the  soundness  of  its  rules  ;  and 
toJbrra  the  taste  by  the  beauty  of  its  illustrations  : 
the  language  of  Addison  is  no  where  more  brilliant 
and  highly  finished  than  in  some  passages  of  these 
papers.  Akenside,  as  is  well  known,  made  them  the 
groundwork  of  his  didactic  poem,  and  had  little  more 
to  do  in  many  parts,  than  to  reduce  to  measure  what 
had  already  all  the  other  charms  of  poetry. 

Several  papers  are  devoted  to  theatrical  entertain- 
ments. Such  was  then  the  licentiousness  of  the 
playhouse,  that  the  austere  moralists  condemned  it 
altogether.  Addison  did  better  ;  for  he  undertook  to 
reform  it ;  and  no  doubt  it  is  owing  to  the  castiga- 
tion  which  he  and  other  writers  of  taste  and  virtue 
have  bestowed  upon  it,  that  it  is  at  present  tolerably 
free  from  gross  indecency,  rant,  and  profaneness.  It 
was  then  common  for  ladies  of  character  to  go  in  a 
mask  the  first  night  of  a  new  play,  as  they  expected  to 
be  put  out  of  countenance.  Steele  had  a  great  share  in 
this  reformation,  as  well  by  his  own  comedies  as  by 
his  strictures  on  those  of  others. 

Not  content  with  the  incidental  and  indirect  service 
done  to  virtue  and  religion  in  the  general  strain  of  his 
writings,  the  Saturday  papers,  through  many  of  the 
volumes,  are  devoted  by  Addison  expressly  to  that 
purpose.  The  sentiments  of  rational  and  liberal  de- 
votion which  breathe  through  them,  are  blended  with 
the  speculations  of  philosophy  and  the  paintings  of  a 
fine  imagination.  His  religious  affections  break  forth 
at  a  fine  sun-set,  the  view  of  the  starry  heavens,  and 
other  circumstances  proper  to  impress  a  mind  of  feel- 
ing. Of  these  a  portion  are  presented  to  the  reader  ; 
perhaps  not  so  many  as,  upon  a  vague  recollection, 
he  will  imagine  might  have  been  collected  :  but  the 
truth  is,  we  abound  so  much  in  excellent  discourses  of 
this  nature,  that  many  of  them  would  not  now  appear 
9 


98  CRITICAL  ESSAY. 

t )  be  marked  with  that  originality  which  is  meant  to 
form  the  basis  of  this  Selection.  In  one  particular, 
we  must  reluctantly  confess,  Addison  was  not  liberal. 
He  had  no  enlarged  ideas  of  religious  toleration.  He 
treats  Freethinkers,  whom  he  often  attacks,  with  a 
contempt  and  insult  by  no  means  consistent  with  either 
the  philosophy  or  the  urbanity  of  his  character  :  nay, 
he  gives  broad  hints  that  the  civil  magistrate  would  be 
well  employed  in  hunting  these  vermin,  as  he  calls 
them,  out  of  society;  and  talks,  half  in  jest,  half  in 
earnest,  of  "  blowing  an  atheist  out  of  the  mouth  of  a 
cannon."  But  Addison  was,  and  was  accustomed 
to  call  himself,  a  tory  in  religion,  though  a  whig  in 
politics. 

The  next  class  may  be  called  his  Fancy  Pieces, 
as  the  J^ision  of  Mirzah,  the  Mountain  of  Miseries, 
Marraton  and  Yaratilda.  These  are  almost  all  such 
as  none  but  himself  could  write.  The  flower  of  the 
most  elegant  imagination,  the  visions  of  a  poetical  fan- 
cy, are  blended  sometimes  with  sentiment,  sometimes 
with  wit  and  gaiety,  and  often  are  illustrative  of  some 
sublime  moral  truth.  In  this  kind  of  writing,  particu- 
larly pleasing  to  young  minds,  Addison  has  been  often 
imitated,  but  perhaps  never  equalled. 

In  the  pictures  of  life  and  delineation  of  manners, 
which  make  up  a  large  part  of  the  work,  the  hand  of 
a  master  is  not  less  apparent.  The  character  of  the 
Spectator  himself  is  well  conceived  and  faithfully  kept 
up  ;  and  that  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  is  exquisitely 
drawn.  It  is  however  remarkable,  that  his  character, 
as  delineated  in  the  course  of  the  work,  is  very  dif- 
ferent from  the  sketch  of  it  given  in  the  account  of 
the  club  with  which  the  first  volume  of  the  Spectator 
opens  :  but  that  paper  is  not  Addison's,  and  it  should 
seem  as  if  the  authors  had  intended  to  make  more  use 
of  those  characters,  than  they  afterwards  found  it  con- 


CRITICAL  ESSAY.  99 

venient  to  do  ;  for  the  greater  part  of  them  come  but 
little  into  play,  and  are  no  way  essential  to  the  con- 
duct of  the  work.  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  in  the 
account  given  of  him  in  the  first  paper,  is  said  to  have 
been  in  his  youth  a  man  of  the  town,  a  fine  gentleman, 
to  have  supped  with  wits,  blustered  in  coffee-houses, 
and  fought  duels.  Addison's  Sir  Roger  is  nothing  of 
all  this.  He  is  an  honest  country  gentleman,  ignorant 
of  the  town  and  the  ways  of  it,  with  a  moderate  share 
of  sense,  very  little  information,  and  a  large  portion  of 
what  many  wTould  call  salutary  prejudices.  By  the 
first  paper  we  are  prepared  to  expect  a  man  whose 
singularities  proceed  from  good  sense  and  an  original 
cast  of  thought  ;  a  kind  of  humorist,  not  unlike  the 
elder  Shandy  ;  but  the  singularities  of  Addison's  Sir 
Roger  proceed  from  rusticity,  and  the  prejudices  of  a 
confined  education,  operating  indeed  upon  a  most 
benevolent  and  friendly  heart.  His  character  is  set 
in  a  new  light,  in  a  paper  written  by  Dr.  Aikin,  in  the 
Monthly  Magazine  for  February,  1800.  It  is  there 
observed,  that  this  character,  though  meant  to  be  a 
favourite,  is  also  meant  as  a  vehicle  of  satire  upon  the 
character  of  the  country  gentleman,  which  Addison 
has  more  openly  held  up  to  ridicule  in  the  country 
squire  of  his  Freeholder  :  they  are  extremely  different 
with  regard  to  the  amiableness  of  their  characters,  but 
they  have  the  same  national  and  party  prejudices,  and 
are  both  intended  to  exhibit  inferiority  to  the  more 
cultured  inhabitant  of  the  town,  and  to  fasten  a  ridicule 
upon  the  tory,  which  at  that  time  was  the  country 
party.  In  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  however,  this  de- 
sign is  subservient  to  that  of  drawing  an  amiable  and 
worthy  character.  Sir  Roger's  benevolence,  hospi- 
tality, piety,  and  honest  open  cheerfulness,  win  our 
warmest  affections ;  and  if  we  often  smile  at,  we  al- 
ways love  him.    The  reserved,  sagacious,  and  thought- 


100  CRITICAL  ESSAY. 

ful  character  of  the  Spectator,  contrasts  very  well  with 
the  simplicity  and  turn  for  active  sports,  of  the  knight. 
With  regard  to  his  passion  for  the  widow,  and  the 
efleet  it  is  said  to  have  had  upon  him,  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  it  forms  a  natural  feature  in  a  char- 
acter like  his.  Minds  that  expand  themselves  in 
feelings  of  cheerful  good  will,  and  acts  of  general 
benevolence,  and  are  at  the  same  time  destitute  of 
those  nicer  discriminations  of  taste  that  influence  par- 
ticular predilections,  are  perhaps  not  very  likely  to 
have  the  colour  of  their  whole  lives  affected  by  a 
hopeless  passion.  But  Addison  has  had  little  to  do 
with  that  part  of  his  character.  Opposed  to  Sir  Roger 
is  Sir  Andrew  Freeport,  a  London  merchant.  Trade, 
though  rising  fast,  or  rather  already  risen  into  conse- 
quence, was  despised  by  the  country  gentry.  Addison 
has  frequently  taken  occasion  to  set  the  trading  part 
of  the  community,  who  were  nearly  all  whigs,  in  a 
respectable  light,  and  to  show  the  connexion  of  com- 
merce with  science  and  liberal  principles.  Many 
other  characters,  in  the  course  of  the  work,  are  delin- 
eated with  great  spirit,  and  humour  ;  and  the  Specta- 
tors are  by  this  alone,-  advantageously  distinguished 
from  all  the  periodical  papers  which  have  succeeded 
them. 

Thus  various  are  the  merits  of  an  author,  whose 
fame  can  only  perish  with  the  language  in  which  he 
wrote.  As  a  critic,  it  is  not  profound  learning  or 
metaphysical  subtlety,  but  exquisite  taste  ;  as  a  philo- 
sopher, it  is  not  deep  research,  but  the  happy  art  of 
unfolding  an  idea,  and  placing  it  in  the  most  attractive 
light ;  as  a  moralist,  it  is  not  that  energy  which  rouses 
and  carries  away  the  soul  in  the  vortex  of  its  own 
enthusiasm ;  nor  the  novelty  of  system,  resulting  from 
bold  original  ideas,  but  an  eloquence  urbane,  persua- 
sive, and  temperate,  the  alliance  of  the  heart  with  tb 


CRITICAL  ESSAY.  101 

imagination,  which  distinguishes  the  page  of  Addison. 
In  strokes  of  delicate  humour  and  refined  wit  he  is 
inexhaustible  ;  but  he  has  given  us  no  instance  of  the 
pathetic,  except  in  his  story  of  Theodosius  and  Con- 
stantia. 

To  the  other  authors  of  these  periodical  papers  we 
are  indebted  for  many  pleasing  essays.  Pierce, 
bishop  of  Rochester,  has  some  ingenious  papers  of 
the  serious  kind.  The  unfortunate  Budgell,  the  rela- 
tion of  Addison,  wrote  many  papers :  his  style  often 
comes  so  near  that  of  his  friend  and  master,  as  to  do 
him  great  honour,  were  it  not  said  that  Addison  added 
so  many  touches  of  his  own  as  to  make  Budgell's 
property  in  them  very  doubtful.  He  uses  the  signa- 
ture of  X.  Tickell,  who  in  many  of  his  works  pre- 
sented a  fainter  reflexion  of  Addison,  was  one  of  the 
set ;  but  his  papers  have  no  mark.  Parnell  wrote 
the  vision  of  the  Grotto  of  Grief,  and  the  Palace  of 
Vanity.  Mr.  Byrom  wrote  the  popular  piece,  My 
time,  O  ye  Muses,  and  some  papers  on  dreaming. 
Most  of  the  interesting  stories  are  Steele's ;  and  the 
greater  part  of  those  papers  that  paint  the  manners  of 
the  town.  Steele  had  a  flowing  pen,  but  his  style  is 
negligent ;  and  though  he  has  endeavoured  to  serve 
the  cause  of  virtue,  particularly  in  his  strictures  on 
duelling,  then  very  common,  and  gaming,  yet  his 
morals  have  neither  the  dignity  nor  the  purity  of  those 
of  his  coadjutor.  '  The  snuffers  (says  bishop  Latimer) 
should  be  of  pure  gold.'  Such  was  not  Steele,  whose 
weaknesses  and  faults  drew  upon  him  the  reperehen- 
sion  of  his  own  better  judgment.  He  was  a  character 
vibrating  between  virtue  and  vice,  but  he  wanted  not 
moral  feeling.  He  is  said  to  have  opposed  duelling, 
in  consequence  of  the  deep  remorse  he  felt  from  the 
fatal  termination  of  a  duel  which  he  himself  {ought  in 
early  life  with  a  brother  officer.     Steele  tells  a  story 


102  CRITICAL  ESSAY. 

with  humour,  but  without  its  more  delicate  touches  ; 
and  his  style  is  marked  by  little  flippancies,  and  a 
certain  air  of  the  town.  His  signature  is  T.  and 
sometimes  R.  Those  of  Addison  were  the  letters 
which  compose  the  name  of  the  Muse  Clio  ;  which 
gave  occasion  to  the  elegant  compliment  paid  him  in 
the  following  couplet : 

When  fainting  Virtue  her  last  effort  made, 
You  brought  your  Clio  to  the  virgin's  aid. 

The  Spectator  continued  from  1710  to  1714  ;  .that 
is,  during  the  last  years  of  Queen  Anne  to  the  begin- 
ning of  the  reign  of  George  the  First :  and  during  a 
time  when  all  the  other  periodical  publications  were 
party  papers,  and  so  bitter  a  spirit  of  animosity  divided 
almost  every  company,  it  was  no  small  advantage  that 
one  paper  appeared  every  morning,  the  tendency  of 
which  was  of  an  opposite  nature,  and  that  presented 
subjects  for  conversation  which  men  might  canvass 
without  passion,  and  on  which  they  might  differ  with- 
out resentment.  Three  thousand  of  them  were  sold 
daily  soon  after  the  commencement  of  the  publication  ; 
afterwards,  it  is  said,  twenty  thousand  ;  and  it  may 
rebuke  our  rage  for  typographical  luxury  to  be  told, 
that  the  immortal  productions  of  Addison  were  first 
given  to  the  public  on  a  half  sheet  of  very  coarse  pa- 
per, and.  before  the  imposition  of  a  stamp,  for  the 
price  of  one  penny. 

The  Guardians  may  be  considered  as  a  kind  of 
sequel  to  the  Spectators.  They  were  in  two  volumes. 
The  strain  of  them  is  somewhat  less  sprightly  ;  but 
they  contain  many  excellent  papers,  and  among  them 
several  by  Pope.  The  Guardian  was  published  in 
the  year  1713,  between  the  seventh  and  eighth  vol- 
umes of  the  Spectator.  For  what  reason  the  authors 
dropped,  changed,  and  resumed  their  title  in  so  short 


CRITICAL  ESSAY.  103 

a  space,  cannot  now  be  known.  The  Guardian  has, 
like  the  Spectator,  a  set  of  characters  as  a  frame  to 
the  work,  my  Lady  Lizard  and  her  sons  and  daugh- 
ters, to  whom  Nestor  Ironside  is  the  Guardian  ;  but 
they  are  drawn  with  less  spirit  than  those  of  the  club 
in  the  Spectator,  and  both  have  the  fault  of  not  being 
necessary  to  the  conduct  of  the  work.  It  is  justly 
observed  by  Dr.  Johnson,  that  the  grave  character  of 
a  Guardian,  and  a  guardian  to  young  ladies,  is  unfa- 
vourable to  the  propriety  of  the  lighter  papers.  What, 
says  he,  have  clubs  of  tall  and  siiort  men  to  do  with 
the  education  of  Lady  Lizard's  daughters?  The 
only  set  of  papers  in  these  volumes  is  that  on  pastoral 
poetry,  written,  it  should  seem,  by  Tickell,  perhaps 
with  the  assistance  of  Phillips,  and  some  touches  of 
Addison.  They  contain  many  just  criticisms  on  a 
species  of  poetry  now  almost  obsolete,  but  at  one 
period  so  much  in  fashion,  that  there  was  hardly  a 
poet  who  did  not  try  his  hand  at  it ;  tfll  at  length  it 
became  insipid  by  the  triteness  of  the  sentiment,  and  the 
servile  use  of  the  heathen  mythology.  The  lovers  of 
Italian  poetry  will  by  no  means  be  satisfied  to  see  the 
beautiful  poems  of  Aminta  and  Pastor  Fido  only 
mentioned  to  be  found  fault  with  ;  but  English  readers 
had,  at  that  time,  little  relish  for  the  belles  lettres  of 
other  nations.  The  Italian  language  was  perhaps 
less  cultivated  than  in  the  preceding  century.  Ad- 
dison himself  had  a  sufficient  portion  of  national  pre- 
judice, as  appears  whenever  the  French  writers  are 
incidentally  mentioned.  The  concluding  allegory 
on  pastoral  poetry  exhibits  much  elegant  fancy,  along 
with  a  strange  confusion  in  the  application  of  it  to 
different  writers,  and  the  periods  in  which  they  flour- 
ished. The  critique  on  Pope's  Pastorals  by  that 
author  himself,  is  remarkable  for  the  delicacy  and 
artful  irony  which  imposed  on  the  editor  of  the  paper, 


104  CRITICAL  ESSAY. 

and  secured  its  insertion,  though  it  was,  in  fact,  a 
concealed  ridicule  on  Phillips,  whose  pastorals  it  had 
been  tiie  aim  of  the  former  papers  to  extol. 

The  Freeholder  was  a  direct  party  paper,  written 
by  Addison  alone,  on  the  side  of  Government,  im- 
mediately after  the  rebellion  of  1715,  when  perhaps 
one  half  of  the  nation  were  Jacobites  in  their  hearts. 
It  can  of  course  supply  little  matter  for  a  selection  of 
this  kind  ;  yet  a  few  papers  are  given,  both  as  they 
possess  genuine  humour,  and  because,  as  Addison 
himself  remarks,  future  readers  may  see  in  them  the 
complexion  of  die  times  in  which  they  were  written. 
His  country  squire  is t drawn  with,  great  humour  and 
much  effect,   as  the  n  tative  of  a  set  of  men 

who  were  then  almost  all  parhzai.s  3gainst  the  court, 
if  not  favourers  of  die  Stuart  family. 

There  seems  to  be  no  kind  of  writing  which  admits 
of  selection  more  readily  than  these  periodical  papers. 
There  is  no*  plan  to  interrupt,  no  thread  of  reasoning 
to  break.  Each  paper  or  set  of  papers  is  complete 
in  itself;  and  though  many  are  left  out  which  may  be 
thought  to  have  some  claim  to  insertion,  none,  it  is 
hoped,  are  inserted  which  the  reader  of  taste  will 
wish  to  have  been  left  out. 


ESSAY 


ON 

THE   ORIGIN   AND    PROGRESS 

OF 

ROMANCE-WRITING. 


ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 


OF 


ROMANCE-WRITING. 


A  collection  of  novels  has  a  better  chance  of  giv- 
ing pleasure  than  of  commanding  respect.  Books  of 
this  description  are  condemned  by  the  grave  and  de- 
spised by  the  fastidious ;  but  their  leaves  are  seldom 
found  unopened,  and  they  occupy  the  parlour  and  the 
drawing  room,  while  productions  of  higher  name  are 
only  gathering  dust  upon  the  shelf.  It  might  not  per- 
haps be  difficult  to  show  that  this  species  of  composi- 
tion is  entitled  to  a  higher  rank  than  has  been  gener- 
ally assigned  it.  Fictitious  adventures  in  one  form  or 
other  have  made  a  part  of  the  polite  literature  of  every 
age  and  nation.  These  have  been  grafted  on  the  ac- 
tions of  their  heroes  ;  they  have  been  interwoven  with 
their  mythology ;  they  have  been  moulded  upon  the 
manners  of  the  age, — and  in  return  have  influenced 
the  manners  of  the  succeeding  generation  by  the  sen- 
timents they  have  infused,  and  the  sensibilities  they 
have  excited. 

Adorned  with  the  embellishments  of  poetry,  they 
produce  the  epic  ;  more  concentrated  in  the  story  and 
exchanging  narrative  for  action,  they  become  dramatic. 

*  Originally  prefixed  to  an  edition  of  the  British  Novelists  published 
in  1810. 


108  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

When  allied  with  some  great  moral  end  as  in  the 
Telemaque  of  Fenelon,  and  Marmontel's  Belisaire, 
they  may  be  termed  didactic.  They  are  often  made 
the  vehicles  of  satire  as  in  Swift's  Gulliver's  Travels 
and  the  Candide  and  Babouc  of  Voltaire.  They  take 
a  tincture  from  the  learning  and  politics  of  the  times, 
and  are  made  use  of  successfully  to  attack  or  recom- 
mend the  prevailing  systems  of  the  day.  When  the 
range  of  this  kind  of  writing  is  so  extensive  and  its 
effects  so  great,  it  seems  evident  that  it  ought  to  hold 
a  respectable  place  among  the  productions  of  genius. 
Nor  is  it  easy  to  say,  why  the  poet,  who  deals  in  one 
kind  of  fiction,  should  have  so  high  a  place  allotted 
him  in  the  temple  of  fame,  and  the  romance-writer  so 
low  a  one  as  in  the  general  estimation  he  is  confined 
to.  To  measure  the  dignity  of  a  writer  by  the  pleas- 
ure he  affords  his  readers,  is  not  perhaps  using  an  ac- 
curate criterion ;  but  the  invention  of  a  story,  the 
choice  of  proper  incidents,  the  ordon nance  of  the 
plan,  occasional  beauties  of  description  ;  and  above 
all,  the  power  exercised  over  the  reader's  heart  by 
filling  it  with  the  successive  emotions  of  love,  pity,  joy, 
anguish,  transport  or  indignation,  together  with  the 
grave  impressive  moral  resulting  from  the  whole,  im- 
ply talents  of  the  highest  order,  and  ought  to  be  ap- 
preciated accordingly.  A  good  novel  is  an  epic  in 
prose,  with  more  of  character  and  less  (indeed  in 
modern  novels  nothing)  of  the  supernatural  machinery. 
If  we  look  for  the  origin  of  fictitious  tales  and  adven- 
tures, we  shall  be  obliged  to  go  to  the  earliest  accounts 
of  the  literature  of  every  age  and  country.  The 
Eastern  nations  have  always  been  fond  of  this  species 
of  mental  gratification.  The  East  is  emphatically  the 
country  of  invention  The  Persians,  Arabians,  and 
other  .rations  in  that  vicinity,  have  been  and  still  are 
in  the  habit  of  employing  people  whose  business  it  is 


OF  ROMANCE-WRITING.  109 

to  compose  and  to  relate  entertaining  stories  ;  and  it 
is  surprising  how  many  stories  (as  Parnell's  Hermit 
for  instance)  which  have  passed  current  in  verse  and 
prose  through  a  variety  of  forms,  may  be  traced  up 
to  this  source.  From  Persia  the  taste  passed  into  the 
soft  and  luxurious  Ionia.  The  Milesian  Tales  writ- 
ten by  Aristides  of  Miletus,  at  what  time  is  not  exact- 
ly known,  seem  to  have  been  a  kind  of  novels.  They 
were  translated  into  Latin  during  the  civil  wars  of 
Marius  and  Sylla.  They  consisted  of  loose  love 
stories,  but  were  very  popular  among  the  Romans ; 
and  the  Parthian  General  who  beat  Crassus,  took  oc- 
casion from  his  finding  a  copy  of  them  amongst  the 
camp  equipage,  to  reproach  that  nation  with  effemina- 
cy, in  not  being  able,  even  in  time  of  danger  to  dis- 
pense with  such  an  amusement.  From  Ionia  the 
taste  for  romances  passed  over  to  the  Greeks  about  the 
time  of  Alexander  the  Great.  The  Golden  Ass  of 
Lucian,  which  is  exactly  in  the  manner  of  the  Arabian 
Tales,  is  one  of  the  few  extant. 

In  the  time  of  the  Greek  Emperors,  these  compo- 
sitions were  numerous  and  had  attained  a  form  and 
polish  which  assimilates  them  to  the  most  regular  and 
sentimental  of  modern  productions.  The  most  per- 
fect of  those  which  are  come  down  to  our  time  is 
Theagenes  and  Chariclea,  a  romance  or  novel  written 
by  Heliodorus  bishop  of  Tricca  in  Thessaly,  who 
flourished  under  Arcadius  and  Honorius  Though 
his  production  was  perfectly  chaste  and  virtuous,  he 
was  called  to  account  for  it  by  a  provincial  synod,  and 
ordered  to  burn  his  book  or  resign  his  bishopric  ;  upon 
which,  with  the  heroism  of  an  author,  he  chose  the 
latter.  Of  this  work  a  new  translation  wras  given  in 
1789  ;  and  had  this  Selection  admitted  translations,  it 
would  have  found  a  place  here.  It  is  not  so  much 
read  as  it  ought  to  be ;  and  it  mav  not  be  amiss  to 
10* 


110  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

inform  the  customers  to  circulating  libraries  that  they 
may  have  the  pleasure  of  reading  a  genuine  novel,  and 
at  the  same  time  enjoy  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  how 
people  wrote  in  Greek  about  love  above  a  thousand 
years  ago.  The  scene  of  this  work  is  chiefly  laid  in 
Egypt.  It  opens  in  a  striking  and  picturesque  man- 
ner. A  band  of  pirates  from  a  hill  that  overlooks  the 
Heracleotic  mouth  of  the  Nile,  see  a  ship  lying  at 
anchor,  deserted  by  its  crew7 ;  a  feast  spread  on  the 
shore  ;  a  number  of  dead  bodies  scattered  round,  in- 
dicating a  recent  skirmish  or  quarrel  at  an  entertain- 
ment ;  the  only  living  creatures,  a  most  beautiful  virgin 
seated  on  a  rock,  wreeping  over  and  supporting  a 
young  man  of  equally  distinguished  figure  who  is 
wounded  and  apparently  lifeless.  These  are  the  hero 
and  the  heroine  of  the  piece,  and  being  thus  let  into 
the  middle  of  the  story,  the  preceding  events  are  given 
in  narration.  The  description  of  the  manner  of  life  of 
the  pirates  at  the  mouth  of  the  Nile,  is  curious  and  no 
doubt  historical.  It  shows  that  as  well  then  as  in 
Homer's  time,  piracy  was  looked  upon  as  a  mode  of 
honourable  war,  and  that  a  captain  who  treated  the 
women  with  respect  and  took  a  regular  ransom  for  his 
captives  and  behaved  well  to  his  men,  did  not  scruple 
to  rank  himself  with  other  military  heroes.  Indeed  it 
might  be  difficult  to  say  why  he  should  not.  It  is  a 
circumstance  worth  observing,  that  Tasso  has  in  all 
probability  borrowed  a  striking  circumstance  from  the 
Greek  romance.  Chariclea  is  the  daughter  of  a 
Queen  of  Ethiopia,  exposed  by  her  mother  to  save 
her  reputation,  as  in  consequence  of  the  Queen,  while 
pregnant,  having  gazed  at  a  picture  of  Perseus  and 
Andromeda,  her  infant  was  born  with  a  fair  complex- 
ion. This  is  the  counterpart  of  the  story  of  Clorinda 
in  the  Gierusalemme  Liberata,  whose  mother  is  sur- 
prised  with   the   same    phenomenon,   occasioned    by 


OF  ROMANCE-WRITING.  til 

having  had  in  her  chamber  a  picture  of  St.  George. 
The  discovery  is  kept  back  to  the  end  of  the  piece 
and  is  managed  in  a  very  striking  manner.  There  is 
much  beautiful  description,  of  which  the  pomp  of 
heathen  sacrifices  and  processions  makes  a  great  part; 
and  the  love  is  at  once  passionate  and  chaste. 

The  pastoral  romance  of  Longus  is  also  extant  in  the 
Greek  language.  It  is  esteemed  elegant,  but  it  would 
be  impossible  to  chastise  it  into  decency.  The  Latins 
who  had  less  invention,  had  no  writings  of  this  kind, 
except  the  Golden  Ass  of  Apuleius  may  be  reckoned 
such.  In  it  is  found  the  beautiful  episode  of  Cupid 
and  Psyche,  which  has  been  elegantly  modernized  by 
La  Fontaine.  But  romance  writing  was  destined  to 
revive  with  greater  splendour  under  the  Gothic  pow- 
ers, and  it  sprung  out  of  the  histories  of  the  times, 
enlarged  and  exaggerated  into  fable.  Indeed  all  fic- 
tions have  probably  grown  out  of  real  adventures. 
The  actions  of  heroes  would  be  the  most  natural  sub- 
ject for  recital  in  a  warlike  age  ;  a  little  flattery  and  a 
little  love  of  the  marvellous  would  overstep  the  modes- 
ty of  truth  in  the  narration.  A  champion  of  extraor- 
dinary size  would  be  easily  magnified  into  a  giant. 
Tales  of  magic  and  enchantment  probably  took  their 
rise  from  the  awe  and  wonder  with  which  the  vulgar 
looked  upon  any  instance  of  superior  skill  in  mechan- 
ics or  medicine,  or  acquaintance  with  any  of  the  hid- 
den properties  of  nature.  The  Arabian  Tales,  so 
well  known  and  so  delightful,  bear  testimony  to  this. 
At  a  fair  in  Tartary,  a  magician  appears  who  brings 
various  curiosities,  the  idea  of  which  was  probably 
suggested  by  inventions  they  had  heard  of,  which,  to 
people  totally  ignorant  of  the  mechanical  powers, 
would  appear  the  effect  of  enchantment.  How  easily 
might  the  exhibition  at  Merlin's  or  the  tricks  of  Jonas 
be  made  to  pass  for  magic  in  New  Holland  or  Ota- 


112  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

heite  !  Letters  and  figures  were  ensily  turned  into 
talismans  by  illiterate  men,  who  saw  that  a  great  deal 
was  effected  by  them,  and  intelligence  conveyed  from 
place  to  place  in  a  manner  they  could  n  >t  account 
for.  Medicine  has  always  in  rude  ages  and  countries 
been  accompanied  with  charms  and  superstitious  prac- 
tices, and  the  charming  of  serpents  in  the  East  is  still 
performed  in  a  way  which  the  Europeans  cannot  dis- 
cover. The  total  separation  of  scholastic  characters 
from  men  of  the  world  favoured  the  belief  of  magic, 
and  when  to  these  causes  are  added  the  religious  su- 
perstitions of  the  times,  we  shall  be  able  to  account 
for  much  of  the  marvellous  in  the  first  instance. 
These  stories  as  well  as  the  historical  ones  would  be 
continually  embellished  as  they  passed  from  hand  to 
hand,  till  the  small  mixture  of  truth  in  them  was 
scarcely  discoverable. 

The  first  Gothic  romances  appeared  under  the 
venerable  guise  of  history.  Arthur  and  the  knights 
of  the  round  table,  Charlemagne  and  his  peers  were 
their  favourite  heroes.  The  extended  empire  of 
Charlemagne  and  his  conquests  naturally  offered 
themselves  as  subjects  for  recital,  but  it  seems  extra- 
ordinary that  Arthur,  a  British  prince  the  scene  of 
whose  exploits  was  in  Wales,  a  country  little  known 
to  the  rest  of  Europe  and  who  was  continually  strug- 
gling against  ill  fortune,  should  have  been  so  great  a 
favourite  upon  the  continent.  Perhaps  however  the 
comparative  obscurity  of  his  situation  might  form  the 
genius  of  the  composition,  and  the  intercourse  between 
Wales  and  Brittany  would  contribute  to  diffuse  and 
exaggerate  the  stories  of  his  exploits.  In  fact,  every 
song  and  record  relating  to  this  hero  was  kept  with 
the  greatest  care  in  Brittany,  and  together  with  a 
Chronicle  deducing  Prince  Arthur  from  Priam  king 
of  Troy,  was  brought  to  England  about  the  year  1 110 


OF  ROMANCE-WRITING.  113 

by  Walter  Mapes  archdeacon  of  Oxford,  when  he 
returned  from  the  continent  through  that  province. 
This  medley  of  historical  songs,  traditions,  and  inven- 
tion, was  put  into  Latin  by  Geoffry  of  Monmouth,  with 
many  additions  of  his  own,  and  from  Latin  translated 
into  French  in  the  year  1115,  under  the  title  of  Brut 
d*  Angleterre.  It  is  full  of  the  grossest  anachronisms. 
Merlin  the  enchanter  is  a  principal  character  in  it. 
He  opposes  his  Christian  magic  to  the  Arabian  sor- 
cerers. About  the  same  time  appeared  a  similar 
history  of  Charlemagne.  Two  expeditions  of  his 
were  particularly  celebrated ;  his  conversion  of  the 
Saxons  by  force  of  arms,  and  his  expedition  into  Spain 
against  the  Saracens ;  in  returning  from  which  he  met 
with  the  defeat  of  Roncevaux  in  which  was  slain  the 
celebrated  Roland.  This  was  written  in  Latin  by  a 
monk,  who  published  it  under  the  name  of  Archbishop 
Turpin,  a  contemporary  of  Charlemagne,  in  order  to 
give  it  credit.  These  two  works  were  translated  into 
most  of  the  languages  of  Europe,  and  became  the 
groundwork  of  numberless  others,  each  more  wonder- 
ful than  the  former,  and  each  containing  a  sufficient 
number  of  giants,  castles,  and  dragons,  beautiful  dam- 
sels and  valiant  princes,  with  a  good  deal  of  religious 
zeal  and  very  little  morality.  Amadis  de  Gaul  was 
one  of  the  most  famous  of  this  class.  Its  origin  is 
disputed  between  France  and  Spain.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  fighting  in  it,  much  of  the  marvellous, 
and  very  little  of  sentiment.  It  has  been  lately  given 
to  the  public  in  an  elegant  English  dress  by  Mr. 
Southey  ;  but  notwithstanding  he  has  considerably 
abridged  its  tediousness  a  sufficiency  of  that  ingredi- 
ent remains  to  make  it  rather  a  task  to  to  go  through 
a  work  which  was  once  so  great  a  favourite.  Palme- 
rin  of  England,  Don  Belianis  of  Greece,  and  the 
others  which  make  up  the  catalogue  of  Don  Quixote's 
library,  are  of  this  stamp. 


114  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  and  his  exploits  were  great- 
ly to  the  taste  of  the  early  romance  writers.  The 
Crusades  kindled  a  taste  for  romantic  adventure  ; 
the  establishment  of  the  Saracens  in  Spain  had  occa- 
sioned a  large  importation  of  genii  and  enchantments, 
and  Moorish  magnificence  was  grafted  upon  the  tales 
of  the  Gothic  chivalry.  Of  these  heroic  romances  the 
Troubadours  were  in  France  the  chief  composers: 
they  began  to  flourish  about  the  middle  of  the  tenth 
century.  They  by  degrees  mingled  a  taste  for  gallan- 
tly and  romantic  love  with  the  adventures  of  heroes, 
and  they  gave  to  that  passion  an  importance  and  re- 
finement which  it  had  never  possessed  among  the  an- 
cients. It  was  a  compound  of  devotion,  metaphysics, 
Platonism,  and  chivalry,  making  altogether  such  a 
mixture  as  the  world  had  never  seen  before.  There 
is  something  extremely  mysterious  in  the  manner  in 
which  ladies  of  rank  allowed  themselves  to  be  address- 
ed by  these  poetical  lovers  ;  sometimes  no  doubt  a 
real  passion  was  produced,  and  some  instances  there 
are  of  its  having  had  tragical  consequences  :  but  in 
general  it  may  be  suspected  that  the  addresses  of  the 
Troubadours  and  other  poets  were  rather  a  tribute 
paid  to  rank  than  to  beauty ;  and  that  it  was  customary 
For  young  men  of  parts,  who  had  a  fortune  to  make, 
to  attach  themselves  to  a  patroness,  of  whom  they 
made  a  kind  of  idol,  sometimes  in  the  hope  of  rising 
by  her  means,  sometimes  merely  as  a  subject  for  their 
wit.  The  manner  in  which  Queen  Elizabeth  allowed 
herself  to  be  addressed  by  her  courtiers,  the  dedica- 
tions which  were  in  fashion  in  Dryden's  time,  the  let- 
ters of  Venture,  and  the  general  strain  of  poetry  of 
Waller  and  Cowley,  may  serve  to  prove  that  there  may 
be  a  great  deal  of  gallantry  without  any  passion.  It 
is  evident  that  while  these  romance-writers  worshipped 
their  mistress  as  a  distant  star,  they  did  not  disdain  to 


OF  ROMANCE-WRITING.  115 

warm  themselves  by  meaner  and  nearer  fires ;  for  the 
species  of  love  or  rather  adoration  they  professed,  did 
not  at  all  prevent  them  from  forming  connexions  with 
more  accessible  fair  ones.  Of  all  the  countries  on  the 
continent,  France  and  Spain  had  the  greatest  number 
of  these  chivalrous  romances.  In  Italy  the  genius  of 
the  nation  and  the  facility  of  versification  led  them  to 
make  poetry  the  vehicle  of  this  kind  of  entertainment. 
The  Cantos  of  Boiardo  and  Ariosto  are  romances  in 
verse. 

In  the  meantime  Europe  settled  into  a  state  of  com- 
parative tranquillity ;  castles  and  knights  and  adven- 
tures of  distressed  damsels  ceased  to  be  the  topics  of 
the  day,  and  romances  founded  upon  them  had  begun 
to  be  insipid,  when  the  immortal  satire  of  Cervantes 
drove  them  from  the  field,  and  they  have  never  since 
been  able  to  rally  their  forces.  The  first  work  of  en- 
tertainment of  a  different  kind  which  was  published  in 
France  (for  the  Pantagruel  of  Rabelais  is  rather  a 
piece  of  licentious  satire  than  a  romance)  was  the 
Astrca  of  M.  d'Urfe.  It  is  a  pastoral  romance,  and 
became  so  exceedingly  popular  that  the  belles  and 
beaux  of  that  country  assumed  the  airs  and  language 
of  shepherds  and  shepherdesses.  A  Celadon  (the  hero 
of  the  piece)  became  a  familiar  appellation  lor  a  lan- 
guishing lover,  and  men  of  gallantry  were  seen  with  a 
crook  in  their  hands,  leading  a  tame  lamb  about  the 
streets  of  Paris.  The  celebrity  of  this  work  was  in 
great  measure  owing  to  its  being  strongly  seasoned 
with  allusions  to  the  intrigues  of  the  court  of  Henry 
the  Fourth,  in  whose  reign  it  was  written.  The  vol- 
umes of  Astrea  are  never  opened  in  the  present  day 
but  as  a  curiosity ;  to  read  them  through,  would  be  a 
heavy  task  indeed.  There  is  in  the  machinery  a 
great  mixture  of  wood  nymphs  and  druids.  The 
work  is  full  of  anachronisms,  but  the  time  is  -supposed 


116  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

to  be  in  the  reign  of  Pharamond  or  his  successors. 
The  tale  begins  with  the  lover,  who  is  under  the  dis- 
pleasure of  his  mistress,  throwing  himself  into  the  wa- 
ter where  he  narrowly  escapes  drowning  at  the  very 
outset  of  the  piece.  We  find  here  the  fountain  of  love, 
in  which  if  a  man  looks,  he  sees,  if  he  is  beloved,  the 
face  of  his  mistress ;  but  if  not,  he  is  presented  with 
the  countenance  of  his  rival ;  long  languishing  speeches 
and  little  adventures  of  intrigue  till  up  the  story.  It  is 
interspersed  with  little  pieces  of  poetry,  very  tolerable 
for  the  time,  but  highly  complimentary.  One  of  them 
turns  upon  the  incident  of  the  poet's  mistress  having 
burnt  her  cheeks  with  her  curling-iron,  upon  which  he 
takes  occasion  to  say,  "  that  the  fire  of  her  eyes  caused 
the  mischief''  This  work  was  however  found  so  in- 
teresting by  M.  Huet,  the  grave  bishop  of  Avranches, 
that  when  he  read  it  along  with  his  sisters,  he  was 
often  obliged,  (as  he  tells  us)  to  lay  the  book  down, 
that  he  and  they  might  give  vent  to  their  tears. 

Though  Cervantes  had  laid  to  rest  the  giants  and 
enchanters,  a  new  style  of  fictitious  writing  was  intro- 
duced, not  less  remote  from  nature,  in  the  romances 
de  longue  haleine,  which  originated  in  France,  and  of 
which  Calprenede  and  Mad.  Scudery  were  the  most 
distinguished  authors.  The  principle  of  these  was 
high  honour,  impregnable  chastity,  a  constancy  un- 
shaken by  time  or  accident,  and  a  species  of  love  so 
exalted  and  refined,  that  it  bore  little  resemblance  to  a 
natural  passion.  These,  in  the  construction  of  the 
story  came  nearer  to  real  life  than  the  former  had 
done.  The  adventures  were  marvellous,  but  not  im- 
possible. The  heroes  and  heroines  were  taken  from 
ancient  history,  but  without  any  resemblance  to  the 
personages  whose  names  they  bore.  The  manners 
therefore  and  passions  referred  to  an  ideal  world,  the 
creation  of  the  writer  ;    but  the  situations  were  often 


OF  ROMANCE-WRITING.  117 

iking  and  the  sentiments  always  noble.  It  is  a  cu- 
rious circumstance  that  Rousseau,  who  tells  us  that  his 
childhood  wras  conversant  in  these  romances,  (a  course 
of  reading  which  no  doubt  fed  and  inflamed  his  tine 
imagination)  has  borrowed  from  them  an  affecting  in- 
cident in  his  NouveUe  Hdoise.  St.  Preux,  when  his 
mistress  lies  ill  of  the  small-pox,  glides  into  the  room, 
approaches  the  bed  in  order  to  imbibe  the  danger,  and 
retires  without  speaking.  Jahi,  when  recovered,  is 
impressed  with  a  confused  idea  of  having  seen  him, 
but  whether  in  a  dream,  a  vision,  or  a  reality,  she  can- 
not determine.  This  striking  circumstance  is  taken 
from  the  now  almost  forgotten  Cassandra  of  Scudeiy. 
The  complimentary  language  of  these  productions 
seems  to  have  influenced  the  intercourse  of  common 
life,  at  least  in  the  provinces,  for  Boileau  introduces  in 
his  satires — 

"  Deux  nobles  campagnards,  grands  lecteurs  de  romans, 
Qui  m'  ont  dit  tout  Cyrus  dans  leurs  longs  complimens." 

The  same  author  makes  a  more  direct  attack  upon 
these  productions  in  a  dialogue  entitled  Les  Heros  de 
Roman,  a  humourous  little  piece,  in  which  he  ridiculed 
these  as  Cervantes  had  done  the  others,  and  drove 
them  from  the  stage. 

Heroic  sentiment  and  refined  feeling,  as  expressed 
in  romances  and  plays,  were  at  this  time  at  their 
height  in  France ;  and  while  the  story  and  adventures 
were  taken  from  die  really  chivalrous  ages,  it  is  amus- 
ing to  observe  how  the  rough  maimers  of  those  times 
are  softened  and  polished  to  meet  the  ideas  of  a  more 
refined  age.  A  curious  instance  of  this  occurs  in 
Corneille's  well  known  play  of  die  Cid.  Chimene, 
having  lost  her  father  by  the  hand  of  her  lover,  not 
only  breaks  off  the  connexion,  but  throws  herself  at 
the  feet  of  the  king  to  entreat  him  to  avenge  her  by 
11 


118  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

putting  Rodrigues  to  death  :  "  Sire,  vengeance  /"  But 
in  the  genuine  chronicle  of  the  Cid,  with  which  curious 
and  entertaining  work  Mr.  Southey  has  lately  obliged 
the  public,  the  previous  incidents  of  the  combat  are 
nearly  the  same,  and  Ximma  in  like  manner  throws 
herself  at  the  feet  of  the  king ;  but  to  be^  what  ?  not 
vengeance  upon  the  murderer  of  her  father,  but  that 
the  king  would  be  pleased  to  give  her  Rodrigues  for  a 
husband,  to  whom  moreover  she  is  not  supposed  to 
have  had  any  previous  attachment ;  her  request  seems 
to  proceed  from  the  simple  idea  that  Rodrigues,  by 
killing  her  father  having  deprived  her  of  one  protec- 
tor, it  was  but  reasonable  that  he  should  give  her 
another. 

Rude  times  are  fruitful  of  striking  adventures  ; 
polished  times  must  render  them  pleasing.  The  pon- 
derous volumes  of  the  romance  writers  being  laid  up- 
on the  shelf,  a  closer  imitation  of  nature  began  to  be 
called  for  ;  not  but  that  from  the  earliest  times,  there 
had  been  stories  taken  from,  or  imitating,  real  life. 
The  Decameron  of  Boccacio,  (a  storehouse  of  tales, 
and  a  standard  of  the  language  in  which  it  is  written,) 
the  Cent  Nouvelles  of  the  Queen  of  Navarre,  Contes 
et  Fabliaux  without  number,  may  be  considered  as 
novels  of  a  lighter  texture  ;  they  abounded  with  ad- 
venture, generally  of  the  humorous,  often  of  the  licen- 
tious kind,  and  indeed  were  mostly  founded  on  in- 
trigue, but  the  nobler  passions  were  seldom  touched. 
The  Roman  Comique  of  Scarron  is  a  regular  piece  of 
its  kind.  Its  subject  is  the  adventures  of  a  set  of 
strolling  players.  Comic  humour  it  certainly  possesses, 
but  the  humour  is  very  coarse,  and  the  incidents  mostly 
low.  Smollet  seems  to  have  formed  himself  very 
much  on  this  model. — But  the  Zaide  and  the  Prin- 
cesse  de  Cheves  of  Mad.  de  la  Fayette  are  esteemed 
to  be  the  first  which  approach  the  modern  novel  of  the 


OF  ROMANCE-WRITING.  119 

serious  kind,  the  latter  especially.  Voltaire  says  of 
them,  that  "  they  were  the  first  novels  which  gave  the 
manners  of  cultivated  life  and  natural  incidents  related 
with  elegance.  Before  the  time  of  this  lady  the  style 
of  these  productions  was  affectedly  turgid,  and  the 
adventures  out  of  nature."  The  modesty  of  Mad.  de 
la  Fayette  led  her  to  shelter  her  productions,  on  their 
first  publication,  under  the  name  of  Segrais,  her  friend, 
under  whose  revision  they  had  passed.  Le  Sage,  in 
his  Gil  Bias,  a  work  of  infinite  entertainment,  though 
of  dubious  morality,  has  given  us  pictures  of  more  fa- 
miliar life,  abounding  in  character  and  incident.  The 
scene  is  laid  in  Spain,  in  which  country  he  had  travel- 
led, and  great  part  of  it  is  imitated  from  the  adven- 
tures of  Don  Gusman  aVAlvarache  ;  for  Spain,  though 
her  energies  have  so  long  lain  torpid,  was  earlier  visited 
by  polite  literature  than  any  country  of  Europe,  Italy 
excepted.  Her  authors  abounded  in  invention,  so 
that  the  plots  of  plays  and  groundwork  of  novels  were 
very  frequently  drawn  from  their  productions.  Cer- 
vantes himself,  besides  his  Don  Quixote,  which  has 
been  translated  and  imitated  in  every  country,  WTote 
several  little  tales  and  novels,  some  of  which  he  intro- 
duced into  that  work,  for  he  only  banished  one  spe- 
cies of  fiction  to  introduce  another.  The  French  im- 
proved upon  their  masters.  There  is  not  perhaps  a 
more  amusing  book  than  Gil  Bias ;  it  abounds  in  traits 
of  exquisite  humour  and  lessons  of  life,  which,  though 
not  always  pure,  are  many  of  them  useful.  In  this 
work  of  Le  Sage,  like  some  of  Smollet's,  the  hero  of 
the  piece  excites  little  interest,  and  it  rather  exhibits  a 
series  of  separate  adventures,  slightly  linked  togeth- 
er, than  a  chain  of  events  concurring  in  one  plan  to 
the  production  of  the  catastrophe,  like  the  Tom  Jones 
of  Fielding.  The  scenes  of  his  Diablc.  Boiteux  are 
still  more  slightly   linked   together.      That  and  his 


120  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

BachaJier  de  Salamanque  are  of  the  same  stamp  with 
Gil  Bias,  though  inferior  to  it.  Marivaux  excelled 
in  a  different  style.  His  Marianne  and  Paisan  Par- 
venu give  a  picture  of  French  manners  with  all  their 
refinement  and  delicacy  of  sentiment.  He  lays  open 
the  heart,  particularly  the  female  heart,  in 
folds  and  recesses;  its  little  vanities  and  afl 
as  well  as  its  finer  feelings,  lie  abounds  in  wit, 
it  is  of  a  refined  kind,  and  requires  thought  in  the 
reader  to  enter  into  it.  He  has  also  much  humour, 
and  describes  comic  scenes  and  characters  amongst 
the  lower  and  middle  ranks  with  a  great  deal  of  the 
comic  effect  but  without  the  coarseness  of  Fielding. 
He  eluded  the  difficulty  of  winding  up  a  story  by 
leaving  both  his  pieces  unfinished.  Marivaux  was 
cotemporary  with  our  Richardson  ;  his  style  is  found 
fault  with  by  some  French  critics.  From  his  time 
novels  of  all  kinds  have  made  a  large  and  attractive 
portion  of  French  literature. 

At  the  head  of  writers  of  this  class  stands  the  se- 
ductive, the  passionate  Rousseau, — the  most  eloquent 
writer  in  the  most  eloquent  modern  language :  whether 
his  glowing  pencil  paints  the  strong  emotions  of  pas- 
sion, or  the  enchanting  scenery  of  nature  in  his  own 
romantic  country,  or  his  peculiar  cast  of  moral  senti- 
ment,— a  charm  is  spread  over  every  part  of  the 
work,  which  scarcely  leaves  the  judgment  free  to 
condemn  what  in  it  is  dangerous  or  reprehensible. 
His  are  truly  the  "  thoughts  that  breathe  and  words 
that  bum."  He  has  hardly  any  thing  of  story  ;  he 
has  but  few  figures  upon  his  canvass  ;  he  wants  them 
not ;  his  characters  are  drawn  more  from  a  creative 
imagination  than  from  real  life,  and  we  wonder  that 
what  has  so  little  to  do  with  nature,  should  have  so 
much  to  do  with  the  heart  Our  censure  of  the  ten- 
dency of  this  work  will  be  softened,  if  we  reflect  that 


OF  ROMANCE-WRITING.  J  21 

Rousseau's  aim  as  far  as  he  had  a  moral  aim,  seems  to 
have  been  to  give  a  striking  example  of  fidelity  in  the 
married  state,  which  it  is  well  known  is  little  thought 
of  by  the  French ;  though  they  would  judge  with  the 
greatest  severity  the  more  pardonable  failure  of  an 
unmarried  woman.  But  Rousseau  has  not  reflected 
that  Julie  ought  to  have  considered  herself  as  indisso- 
lubly  united  to  St  Preux  ;  her  marriage  with  another 
was  the  infidelity.  Rousseau's  great  rival  in  fame, 
Voltaire  has  written  many  light  pieces  of  fiction  which 
can  scarcely  be  called  noyels.  They  abound  in  wit 
and  shrewdness  but  they  are  all  composed  to  subserve 
his  particular  views,  and  to  attack  systems  which  he 
assailed  in  every  kind  of  way.  His  Candide  has 
much  strong  painting  of  the  miseries  and  vices  which 
abound  in  this  world,  and  is  levelled  against  the  only 
system  which  can  console  the  mind  under  the  view  of 
them.  In  Ulngenu,  besides  the  wit,  he  has  shown 
that  he  could  also  be  pathetic.  Les  Lettres  Peruvi- 
ennes,  by  Madame  Grafigny  is  a  most  ingenious  and 
charming  little  piece.  Paul  and  Virginia,  by  that 
friend  of  humanity  St  Pierre,  with  the  purest  sentiment 
and  most  beautiful  description,  is  pathetic  to  a  degree 
that  even  distresses  the  feelings.  La  Chaumiere  In- 
dienne,  also  his,  breathes  the  spirit  of  universal  phi- 
lanthropy. Caroline  de  Licktfeld  is  justly  a  favour- 
ite ;  but  it  were  impossible  to  enumerate  all  the  elegant 
compositions  of  this  class  which  later  times  have  pour- 
ed forth.  For  the  expression  of  sentiment  in  all  its 
various  shades,  for  the  most  delicate  tact,  and  a  refine- 
ment and  polish,  the  fruit  of  high  cultivation,  the  French 
writers  are  superior  to  those  of  every  other  nation. 

There  is  one  species  of  this  composition  which  may 

be  called    the  Didactic  Romance,  which  they  have 

peculiarly  made  use  of  as  a  vehicle  for  moral  sentiment 

and  philosophical  or  political  systems  and  opinions. 

11* 


122  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

Of  this  nature  is  the  beautiful  fiction  of  Teltmuqm . 
if  it  be  not  rather  an  Epic  in  prose;  the  high  merit  of 
which  cannot  be  sufficiently  appreciated,  unless  the 
reader  bears  in  mind  when  and  to  whom  it  was  writ- 
ten ;  that  it  dared  to  attack  the  fondness  for  war  and 
the  disposition  to  ostentatious  profusion,  under  a  mon- 
arch the  most  vain  and  ambitious  of  his  age,  and  to 
draw  expressly  as  a  pattern  for  his  successor,  the  pic- 
ture of  a  prince  the  reverse  of  him  in  almost  every 
thing.  Les  Voyages  de  Cyrus,  by  Ramsay,  and 
S ethos,  by  the  Abbe  Terrasson,  are  of  the  same  kind  ; 
the  former  production  is  rather  dry  and  some  what 
mystical ;  it  enters  pretty  deeply  into  the  mythology 
of  the  ancients,  and  aims  at  showing  that  the  leading 
truths  of  religion, — an  original  state  of  happiness,  a 
fall  from  that  state,  and  the  final  recovery  and  happi- 
ness of  all  sentient  beings  are  to  be  found  in  the  my- 
thological systems  of  all  nations.  Ramsay  was  a 
Scotchman  by  birth,  but  had  lived  long  enough  in 
France  to  write  the  language  like  a  native,  a  rare  ac- 
quisition !  The  latter,  Sethos,  contains  interwoven  in 
its  story  all  that  we  know  concerning  the  customs  and 
manners  of  the  ancient  Egyptians ;  the  trial  of  the 
dead  before  they  are  received  to  the  honours  of  sepul- 
ture, and  the  various  ordeals  of  the  initiation,  are  very 
Striking.  A  high  and  severe  tone  of  morals  reigns 
through  the  whole,  and  indeed  both  this  and  the  last- 
mentioned  composition  are  much  too  grave  for  the 
readers  of  romance  in  general.  That  is  not  the  case 
with  the  Bdisaire,  and  Les  Incas,  of  Marmonu-l,  in 
which  the  incidents  meant  to  strike  the  feelings  and 
the  fancy  are  executed  with  equal  happiness  with  the 
preceptive  part.  Writings  like  these  co-operated 
powerfully  with  the  graver  labours  of  the  encyclope- 
dists in  diffusing  sentiments  of  toleration,  a  spirit  of 
free   enquiry,  and  a  desire  for  equal  laws  and  good 


OF  ROMANCE-WRITING.  123 

government  over  Europe.  Happy,  if  the  mighty  im- 
pulse had  permitted  them  to  slop  within  the  bounds  of 
justice  and  moderation  !  'J 'he  French  language  is 
well  calculated  for  eloquence.  The  harmony  and 
elegance  of  French  prose,  the  taste  of  their  writers, 
and  the  grace  and  amenity  which  they  know  how  to 
diffuse  over  every  subject,  give  great  effect  to  compo- 
sitions of  this  kind.  When  ivc  aim  at  eloquence  in 
prose,  we  are  apt  to  become  turgid.  Florian,  though 
a  feeble  writer,  is  not  void  of  merit.  His  Galatee  is 
from  Cervantes ;  his  Gonsalve  de  Cordoue  is  built 
upon  the  history  of  that  hero. 

There  is  one  objection  to  be  made  to  these  ro- 
mances founded  on  history,  which  is,  that  if  the  per- 
sonages are  not  judiciously  selected,  they  are  apt  to 
impress  false  ideas  on  the  mind.  Sethos  is  well  chosen 
for  a  hero  in  this  respect.  His  name  scarcely  emerges 
from  the  obscurity  of  half  fabulous  times  and  of  a 
country  whose  records  are  wrapped  in  mystery  ;  for 
all  that  is  recorded  of  Sethos  is,  merely  that  there  was 
such  a  prince,  and  that  for  some  reason  or  other,  he 
entered  into  the  priesthood.  Cyrus,  though  so  con- 
spicuous a  character,  was  probably  thought  a  fair  one 
for  the  purpose,  as  Xenophon  has  evidently  made  use 
of  him  in  the  same  manner  ;  but  it  may  admit  a  doubt 
whether  Belisarius  is  equally  so ;  still  less,  many  in 
more  modern  times  that  have  been  selected  for  writ- 
ings of  this  kind.  Teicmnchus  is  a  character  already 
within  the  precincts  of  poetry  and  fable,-  and  may  il- 
lustrate without  any  objection  the  graceful  fictions  of 
Fenelon.  Our  own  Prince  Arthur  offers  himself 
with  equal  advantage  for  poetry  or  romance.  Where 
history  says  little,  fiction  may  say  much  :  events  and 
men  that  are  dimly  seen  through  the  obscurity  of  re- 
mote periods  and  countries,  may  be  illuminated  with 
these   false  lights  :  but  where  historv  throws  her  light 


124  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

steady  and  strong,  no  artificial  colouring  should  be 
permitted.  Impressions  of  historical  characters  very 
remote  from  the  truth,  often  remain  on  the  mind  from 
dramatic  compositions.  If  we  examine  into  our  ideas 
of  the  Henries  and  Richards  of  English  history,  we 
shall  perhaps  find  that  they  are  as  much  drawn  from 
Shakspeare  as  from  Hume  or  Rapin.  Some  of  our 
English  romances  are  very  faulty  in  this  respect.  A 
lady  confessed  that  she  could  not  get  over  a  prejudice 
against  the  character  of  our  Elizabeth,  arising  from 
her  cruelty  to  two  imaginary  daughters  of  Mary  Queen 
of  Scots,  who  never  existed  but  in  the  pages  of  a 
novel.  The  more  art  is  shown,  (and  much  is  often 
shown,)  in  weaving  the  fictitious  circumstances  into  the 
texture  of  the  history,  the  worse  is  the  tendency.  A 
romance  of  which  Edward  the  Black  Prince  is  the 
hero,  by  Clara  Reeve,  has  many  curious  particulars 
of  the  customs  of  that  age ;  hut  the  manners  of  his 
court  are  drawn  with  such  a  splendid  colouring  of 
heroic  virtue  as  certainly  neither  that  court  nor  any 
other  ever  deserved. 

Among  the  authors  of  preceptive  novels,  Madame 
Genlis  stands  very  high.  Her  Adele  fy  Theodore  is 
a  system  of  education,  the  whole  of  which  is  given  in 
action;  there  is  infinite  ingenuity  in  the  various  illus- 
trative incidents  :  the  whole  has  an  air  of  the  world 
and  of  good  company  ;  to  an  English  reader  it  is  also 
interesting  as  exhibiting  traits  of  Parisian  manners  and 
modern  manners  from  one  who  was  admitted  into  the 
first  societies.  A  number  of  characters  are  delinea- 
ted and  sustained  with  truth  and  spirit,  and  the  stories 
of  Cecile  and  the  Duchesse  de  C.  are  uncommonly 
interesting  and  well  told,  while  the'  sublime  benevo- 
lence of  M.  and  Mad.  Lagaraye  presents  a  cure 
for  sorrow  worthy  of  a  Howard.  From  the  system 
of  Madame  Genlis  many  useful  hints  may  be  gather- 


OF  ROMANCE-WRITING.  125 

ec!,  though  the  English  reader  will  probably  find  much 
that  differs  from  his  own  ideas.  A  good  bishop,  as 
Mucl  relates,  conceiving  of  love  as  a  most  formidable 
my  to  virtue,  entertained  the  singular  project  of 
writing  or  procuring  to  be  written,  a  number  of  novels 
framed  in  such  a  manner  as  to  inspire  an  antipathy  to 
this  profane  passion.  Madame  Genlis  seems  to  have 
had  the  same  idea  ;  and  in  this  manual  of  education, 
love  is  represented  as  a  passion  totally  unfit  to  enter 
the  breast  of  a  young  female  ;  and  in  this,  and  all  her 
other  works,  she  represents  as  ending  in  misery,  every 
connexion  which  is  begun  by  a  mutual  inclination. 
The  parent,  the  mother  rather,  must  dispose  of  her 
daughter ;  the  daugbter  must  be  passive ;  and  the 
great  happiness  of  her  life,  is  to  be  the  having  in  her 
turn  a  daughter,  in  whose  affections  she  is  to  be  the 
prime  object.  Filial  affection  is  no  doubt  much  ex- 
aggerated by  this  writer.  It  is  not  natural  that  a 
young  woman  should  make  it  an  indispensable  condi- 
tion of  marrying  an  amiable  young  man,  that  he  will 
not  separate  her  from  her  mother.  We  know  in 
England  what  filial  affection  is,  and  we  know7  it  does 
not  rise  so  high,  and  we  knowr  too  that  it  ought  not. 
There  is  another  objection  to  Madame  Genlis's  sys- 
tem of  education  which  applies  also  to  Rousseau's  Ent- 
ile; which  is,  that  it  is  too  much  founded  on  decep- 
tion. The  pupil  never  sees  the  real  appearances  of 
life  and  manners  ;  the  whole  of  his  education  is  a  se- 
ries of  contrived  artificial  scenery,  produced,  as  occa- 
sion demands,  to  serve  a  particular  purpose.  Few  of 
these  scenes  would  succeed  at  all  ;  a  number  of  them 
certainly  never  would.  Indeed  Madame  Genlis  is  not 
very  strict  in  the  point  of  veracity.  A  little  fibbing 
is  even  enjoined  to  Adele  occasionally  on  particular 
emergencies.  Les  Veillees  du  Chateau,  by  the  same 
author,  has  great  merit.     A  number  of  other  produc- 


126  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

tions  which  have  flowed  from  her  pen,  witness  her 
fertility  of  invention  and  astonishing  rapidity  of  crea- 
tion ;  their  merit  is  various ;  all  have  great  elegance 
of  style ;  but  it  is  observable  that  in  some  of  her  later 
novels  she  has  endeavoured  to  favour  the  old  order  of 
things,  to  make  almost  an  object  of  worship  of  Louis 
the  Fourteenth,  and  to  revive  the  reverence  for  mon- 
astic seclusion,  which  with  so  much  pathos  she  had  at- 
tacked in  her  charming  story  of  Cecile.  The  Atala 
of  M.  Chateau  Briand  is  in  like  manner  directed  to 
prop  the  falling  fabric  of  the  Romish  faith. 

The  celebrated  daughter  of  Necker  is  one  whose 
name  cannot  be  passed  over  in  this  connection.  Her 
Delphine  exhibits  great  powers ;  some  of  the  situa- 
tions are  very  striking  ;  and  the  passion  of  love  is  ex- 
pressed in  such  a  variety  of  turns  and  changes,  and 
with  so  many  refined  delicacies  of  sentiment  that  it  is 
surprising  how  any  language  could,  and  surely  no  lan- 
guage could  but  the  French,  find  a  sufficient  variety  of 
phrases  in  which  to  dress  her  ideas.  Yet  this  novel 
cannot  be  called  a  pleasing  one.  One  monotonous 
colour  of  sadness  prevails  through  the  whole,  varied 
indeed  with  deeper  or  lighter  shades,  but  no  where 
presenting  the  cheerful  hues  of  contentment  and  plea- 
sure. A  heavier  accusation  lies  against  this  work 
from  its  tendency,  on  which  account  it  was  said  that 
the  author  was  desired  by  the  present  sovereign  of 
France  to  leave  Paris ;  but  we  may  well  suspect  that 
a  scrupulous  regard  to  morality  had  less  share  than 
political  motives  in  such  a  prohibition.  Corinne,  by 
the  same  author  is  less  exceptionable  and  has  less 
force.  It  has  some  charming  descriptions,  and  a  pic- 
ture of  our  English  country  manners  Which  may  in- 
terest our  curiosity,  though  it  will  not  greatly  flatter 
our  vanity.  Elegant  literature  has  sustained  a  loss  in 
the  recent  death  of  Madame  Cotin.     Her  Elizabeth 


UF  ROMANCE-WRITING.  127 

and  Matilde  have  given  her  a  deserved  celebrity. 
The  latter,  is  however  very  enthusiastic  and  gloomy. 

A  number  of  other  French  writers  of  this  class 
ought  have  been  mentioned  as  Madame  Riccoboni, 
Madame  Elic  de  Beaumont,  the  Abbe  Prevost,  whose 
Chevalier  de  Grieux  though  otherwise  not  com- 
iii  uiablc,  has  some  very  pathetic  parts.  To  these 
may  be  added  Cerebillon,  and  a  number  of  writers  of 
his  class  ;  for  it  must  not  be  disguised,  that  besides  the 
more  respectable  French  novels  there  are  a  number 
of  others  which  having  passed  no  license  of  press, 
were  said  to  be  sold  sous  le  manteaux,  and  were  not 
therefore  the  less  read.  These  are  not  merely  ex- 
ceptionable ;  they  are  totally  unfit  to  enter  a  house 
where  the  morals  of  young  people  are  esteemed  an 
object.  They  are  generally  not  course  in  language, 
perhaps  less  so  than  many  English  ones  which  aim  at 
humour  ;  but  gross  sensual  pleasure  is  the  very  soul 
of  them.  The  awful  frown  with  which  the  better 
part  of  the  English  public  seem  disposed  to  receive 
any  approaches,  either  in  verse  or  prose,  to  the  French 
voluptuousness,  does  honor  to  the  national  character. 

The  Germans  formerly  remarkable  for  the  labori- 
ous heaviness  and  patient  research  of  their  literary 
labours,  have  within  this  last  century,  cultivated  with 
great  success  the  field  of  polite  literature.  Plays, 
tales  and  novels  of  all  kinds  ;  many  of  them  by  their 
most  celebrated  authors,  were  at  first  received  with 
avidity  in  this  country  and  even  made  the  study  of 
their  language  popular.  The  tide  has  turned,  and 
they  are  now  as  much  depreciated.  The  Sorrows  of 
Werter  by  Gcethe  was  the  first  of  these  with  which 
we-  were  familiarized  in  this  country  ;  we  received  it 
through  the  medium  of  a  French  translation.  Tt  is 
highly  pathetic,  but  its  tendency  has  been  severely, 
perhaps  justly,  censured  ;  yet  the  author  might  plead 


12B  ORIGIN    AN  J)  PROGRESS 

thai   he  lias   given    warning  of   the  probable  con-*  - 
que;  illicit  and  uncontrolled  passions  by  the  aw- 

ful catastrophe;  It  is  certain,  however,  that  the  im- 
pression made  is  of  more  importance  than  the  moral 
deduced;  and  if  Schiller's  fine  play  of  T.'i  Robbers 
has  had,  as  we  are  assured  was  the  case,  the  effect  of 
leading  some  well-educated  young  gentlemen  to  com- 
mit depredations  on  the  public,  allured  by  the  splen- 
dour of  the  principal  character,  we  may  well  suppose 
that  Werter's  delirium  of  passion  will  not  be  less  se- 
ducing. Goethe  has  written  another  novel,  much  es- 
teemed, it  is  said,  by  the  Germans,  which  contains, 
amongst  other  things,  criticisms  on  the  drama.  The 
celebrated  VVieland  has  composed  a  great  number  of 
works  of  fiction  ;  the  scene  of  most  of  them  is  laid 
in  ancient  Greece.  His  powers  are  great,  his  inven- 
tion fertile,  but  his  designs  insidious.  He  and  some 
others  of  the  German  writers  of  philosophical  ro- 
mance, have  used  them  as  a  frame  to  attack  received 
opinions,  both  in  religion  and  in  morals.  Two  at  least 
of  his  performances  have  been  translated,  Agatken 
and  Peregrine  Proteus.  The  former  is  beautifully 
written,  but  its  tendency  is  seductive.  The  latter  has 
taken  for  its  basis  a  historical  character ;  its  tendency 
is  also  obvious.  Klinger  is  an  author  who  deals  in  the 
horrid.  He  subsists  on  murders  and  atrocities  of  all 
sorts,  and  introduees  devils  and  evil  spirits  among  his 
personages  ;  he  is  said  to  have  powers,  but  to  labour 
under  a  totai  want  of  taste.  In  contrast  to  this  writer 
and  those  of  his  class,  may  be  mentioned  the  Ghost 
Seer  by  Schiller,  and  The  Sorcerer  by  another  hand. 
These  were  written  to  expose  the  artifices  of  the  Ital- 
ian adepts  of  the  school  ol  Cas;liostro.  It  is  well 
known  that  these  were  spreading  -;perstition  and  en- 
thusiasm on  the  German  pan  of  the  continent  to  an 
alarming  degree,  and  had  so  worked  upon  the  mind 


OP  ROMANCE-WRITING.  J  29 

of  the  late  King  of  Prussia,  that  he  was  made  to  be- 
lieve he  possessed  the  power  of  rendering  himself 
invisible,  and  was  wonderfully  pleased  when  one  of 
his  courtiers,  (who  by  the  way,  understood  his  trade) 
ran  against  and  jostled  him,  pretending  not  to  see  his 
Majesty.  These  have  been  translated  ;  as  also  a 
pleasant  and  lively  satire  on  Lavater's  system  of  phy- 
siognomy, written  by  Musaeus,  author  of  Popular  Tales 
of  the  Germans.  The  Germans  abound  in  materials 
for  works  of  the  imagination ;  for  they  are  rich  in 
tales  and  legends  of  an  impressive  kind,  which  have 
perhaps  amused  generation  after  generation  as  nurse- 
ry stories,  and  lain  like  ore  in  the  mine,  ready  for 
the  hand  of  taste  to  separate  the  dross  and  polish  the 
material :  for  it  is  far  easier,  when  a  nation  has  gain- 
ed cultivation,  to  polish  and  methodise  than  to  in- 
vent. A  very  pleasing  writer  of  novels  in  the  more 
common  acceptation  of  the  term,  is  Augustus  La  Fon- 
taine ;  at  least  he  has  written  some  for  which  he  merits 
that  character,  though  perhaps  more  that  are  but  indif- 
ferent. His  Tableaux  de  Famille  contains  many  sweet 
domestic  pictures  and  touches  of  nature.  Tt  is  imitat- 
ed from  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  The  Germans  are 
a  very  book-making  people.  It  is  calculated  that 
twenty  thousand  authors  of  that  nation  live  by  the  ex- 
ercise of  the  pen  ;  and  in  the  article  of  novels  it  is 
computed  that  seven  thousand,  either  original  or  trans- 
lated, have  been  printed  by  them  within  the  last  twenty- 
five  years. 

One  Chinese  novel  has  been  translated.  It  is  call- 
ed the  Pleasing  History  or  the  Adventures  of  Han 
Kion  Clioan.  It  is  said  to  be  much  esteemed,  but 
can  only  be  interesting  to  an  European,  as  exhibiting 
something  of  the  manners  of  that  remote  and  singular 
country.  It  chiefly  turns  upon  the  stratagems  used  by 
the  heroine  to  elude  the  ardour  of  her  lover,  and  re- 
12 


130  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

tard  his  approaches,  till  every  circumstance  of  form 
and  ceremony  had  been  complied  with.  In  their  most 
tender  assignations  the  lady  is  hid  behind  a  curtain,  as 
he  is  not  permitted  to  see  her  face  ;  and  a  female  at- 
tendant conveys  the  tender  speeches  from  one  to  the 
other ;  by  which,  according  to  our  ideas  they  would 
lose  much  of  their  pathos.  The  chief  quality  the 
heroine  exhibits  is  cunning,  and  the  adventures  are  a 
kind  of  hide-and-seek  between  the  lovers.  In  short, 
Shuy  Ping  Sin  to  a  Chinese  may  possibly  be  as 
great  an  object  of  admiration  as  Clarissa,  but  her  ac- 
complishments are  not  calculated  for  the  meridian  of 
this  country. 

In  England,  most  of  the  earlier  romances  from  the 
days  of  Chaucer  to  James  the  First,  were  translations 
from  the  Spanish  or  French.  One  of  the  most  cele- 
brated of  our  own  growth  is  Sir  Philip  Sidney's 
Arcadia,  dedicated  to  his  sister  the  Countess  of  Pem- 
broke. It  is  a  kind  of  pastoral  romance,  mingled  with 
adventures  of  the  heroic  and  chivalrous  kind.  It  has 
great  beauties,  particularly  in  poetic  imagery.  It  is  a 
book  which  all  have  heard  of,  which  some  few  pos- 
sess, but  which  nobody  reads.  The  taste  of  the  times 
seems  to  have  been  for  ponderous  performances.  The 
Duchess  of  Newcastle  was  an  indefatigable  writer  in 
this  way.  Roger  Boyle,  Earl  of  Orrery,  published  in 
1G64,  a  romance  called  Parthenissa.  It  was  in  three 
volumes  folio  and  unfinished,  to  which  circumstance 
alone,  his  biographer,  Mr.  Walpole,  attributes  its  being 
but  little  read.  He  must  have  had  a  capacious  idea 
of  the  appetite  of  the  readers  of  those  days.  There 
is  a  romance  of  later  date  in  one  small  volume  by  the 
Hon.  Robert  Boyle — The  Martyrdom  of  Didymus 
and  Theodora,  a  Christian  heroic  tale.  We  had 
pretty  early  some  celebrated  political  romances.  Sir 
Thomas  Mare's  Utopia,  Barclay's  Argenis,  and  Har- 


OF  ROMANCE-WRITING.  131 

rington's  Oceana,  are  of  this  kind  :  the  two  former  are 
written  in  Latin.  The  Utopia,  which  is  meant  as  a 
model  of  a  perfect  form  of  civil  polity,  is  chiefly  pre- 
served in  remembrance  at  present  by  the  same  singu- 
lar fortune  with  the  Quixote  of  Cervantes,  of  furnishing 
a  new  word,  which  has  been  adopted  into  the  language 
as  a  permanent  part  of  it ;  for  we  speak  familiarly  of  an 
Utopian  scheme  and  a  Quixotish  expedition.  Barclay 
was  a  Scotchman  by  birth ;  he  was  introduced  into 
the  court  of  James  the  First,  and  was  afterwards  Pro- 
fessor of  civil  law  at  Angers ;  he  died  at  Rome.  His 
Argenis  is  a  political  allegory  which  displays  the  revo- 
lutions and  vices  of  courts ;  it  is  not  destitute  of  im- 
agery and  elevated  sentiment,  and  displays  much 
learning ;  and  wrhile  the  allusions  it  is  full  of  were  un- 
derstood, it  was  much  read  and  was  translated  into 
various  languages,  but  is  at  present  sunk  into  oblivion, 
though  a  new  translation  was  made  not  many  years 
since  by  Mrs.  Clara  Reeve.  Harrington's  Oceana 
is  meant  as  a  model  of  a  perfect  republic,  the  constant 
idol  of  his  imagination.  All  these,  though  works  of 
fiction,  would  greatly  disappoint  those  who  should  look 
into  them  for  amusement.  Of  the  lighter  species  of 
this  kind  of  wTiting,  the  Novel,  till  within  half  a  cen- 
tury we  had  scarcely  any.  The  Atalantis  of  Mrs. 
Manley  lives  only  in  that  line  of  Pope  which  seems  to 
promise  it  immortality  : 

"  As  long  as  Atalantis  shall  be  read." 

It  was  like  Astrea,  filled  with  fashionable  scandal. 
Mrs.  Behn's  novels  were  licentious  ;  they  are  also 
fallen  ;  but  it  ought  not  to  be  forgotten  that  Southern 
borrowed  from  her  his  affecting  story  of  Oroonoko. 
Mrs.  Haywood  was  a  very  prolific  genius  ;  her  earlier 
novels  are  in  the  style  of  Mrs.  Behn's,  and  Pope  has 
chastised  her  in  his  Dimciad  without  mercy  or  delfea- 


132  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

cy,  but  her  later  works  are  by  no  means  void  of  merit. 
She  wrote  the  Invisible  Spy,  and  Betsy  Thoughtless, 
and  was  the  author  of  The  Female  Spectator. 

But  till  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  theatrical 
productions  and  poetry  made  a  far  greater  part  of  po- 
lite reading  than  novels,  which  had  attained  neither  to 
elegance  nor  discrimination  of  character.  Some  ad- 
ventures and  a  long  story  were  all  they  aimed  at. 
The  ladies'  library  described  in  the  Spectator  contains 
The  grand  Cyrus,  with  a  pin  stuck  in  one  of  the 
leaves"  and  "  Clelia,  which  opened  of  itself  in  the 
place  that  describes  two  lovers  in  a  bower  :"  but  there 
does  not  occur  either  there,  or,  I  believe,  in  any  other 
part  of  the  work,  the  name  of  an  English  novel,  the 
Atalantis  only  excepted  ;  though  plays  are  often  men- 
tioned as  a  favorite  and  dangerous  part  of  ladies' 
reading  ;  and  certainly  the  plays  of  those  times  were 
worse  than  any  novels  of  the  present.  The  first  author 
amongst  us  who  distinguished  himself  by  natural  paint- 
ing, was  that  truly  origina'  genius  De  Foe.  His  Rob- 
inson Crusoe  is  to  this  day  an  unique  in  its  kind,  and 
lie  has  made  it  very  interesting  without  applying  to  the 
common  resource  of  love.  At  length  in  the  reign  of 
George  the  Second,  Richardson,  Fielding  and  Smol- 
lett appeared  in  quick  succession  ;  and  their  success 
raised  such  a  demand  for  this  kind  of  entertainment, 
that  it  has  ever  since  been  furnished  from  the  press, 
rather  as  a  regular  and  necessary  supply,  than  as  an 
occasional  gratification.  Novels  have  been  numerous 
as  "leaves  in  Vallombrosa."  The  indiscriminate  pas- 
sion for  them,  and  their  bad  effects  on  the  female  mind, 
became  the  object  of  the  satire  of  Garrick,  in  a  spright- 
ly piece  entitled  Polly  Honeycomb.  A  few  deserve 
to  be  mentioned,  either  for  their  excellence  or  the 
singularity  of  their  plan. 

The  history  of  Gaudentio  di  Lucca,  published  jh 


OF  ROMANCE-WRITING.  133 

1725,  is  the  effusion  of  a  fine  fancy  and  a  refined  un- 
derstanding ;  it  is  attributed  to  Bishop  Berkeley.  It 
gives  an  account  of  an  imaginary  people  in  the  heart 
of  Africa,  their  manners  and  customs.  They  are 
supposed  to  be  descended  from  the  ancient  Egyptians, 
to  be  concealed  from  all  the  world  by  impenetrable 
deserts.  The  description  of  crossing  the  sands  is 
very  striking,  and  shows  much  information  as  well  as 
fancy.  It  is  not  written  to  favour  any  particular  sys- 
tem ;  the  whole  is  a  play  of  fine  imagination  delight- 
ing itself  with  images  of  perfection  and  happiness, 
which  it  cannot  find  in  any  existing  form  of  things. 
The  frame  is  very  well  managed  ;  the  whole  is  sup- 
posed to  be  read  in  manuscript  to  the  fathers  of  the 
Inquisition,  and  the  remarks  of  the  holy  office  are  very 
much  in  character.  A  highly  romantic  air  runs  through 
the  whole,  but  the  language  is  far  from  elegant. 

Another  singular  publication  which  appeared  in 
175G,  was  The  Memoirs  of  several  Ladies,  by  John 
Buncle,  followed  the  next  year  by  the  Life  of  Bunch. 
These  volumes  are  very  whimsical,  but  contain  enter- 
tainment. The  ladies  whose  memoirs  he  professes  to 
give,  are  all  highly  beautiful  and  deeply  learned  ;  good 
Hebrew  scholars  ;  and  above  all,  zealous  Unitarians. 
The  author  generally  finds  them  in  some  sequestered 
dell,  among  the  fells  and  mountains  of  Westmoreland, 
where  after  a  narrow  escape  from  breaking  his  neck 
among  rocks  and  precipices,  he  meets  like  a  true 
knight-errant  with  one  of  these  adventures.  He  mar- 
ries in  succession  four  or  five  of  these  prodigies,  and 
the  intervals  between  description  and  adventure  are 
filled  up  with  learned  conversations  on  abstruse  points 
of  divinity.  .Many  of  the  descriptions  are  taken  from 
nature,  and  as  the  book  was  much  read,  have  possibly 
contributed  to  spread  that  taste  for  lake  and  mountain 
scenery  which  has  since  been  so  prevalent.  The  au- 
thor was  a  clergvman. 
12* 


134  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

A  novel  universally  read  at  the  time  was  Chrysal 
or  The  Adventures  of  a  Guinea.  It  described  real 
characters  and  transactions,  mostly  in  high  life,  under 
fictitious  names  ;  and  certainly,  if  a  knowledge  of  the 
vicious  part  of  the  world  be  a  desirable  acquisition, 
Chrysal  will  amply  supply  it ;  but  many  of  the  scenes 
are  too  coarse  not  to  offend  a  delicate  mind,  and  the 
generation  it  describes,  is  past  away.  Pompey  the  Lit- 
tle, with  a  similar  frame,  has  less  of  personality,  and 
is  a  lively  and  pleasant  satire.     Its  author  is  unknown. 

About  fifty  years  ago  a  very  singular  work  appear- 
ed somewhat  in  the  guise  of  a  novel,  which  gave  a  new 
impulse  to  writings  of  this  stamp ;  namely,  The  Life 
and  Opinions  of  Tristram  Shandy,  followed  by  The 
Sentimental  Journey,  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Sterne,  a  cler- 
gyman of  York.  They  exhibit  much  originality,  wit 
and  beautiful  strokes  of  pathos,  but  a  total  want  of 
plan  or  adventure,  being  made  up  of  conversations 
and  detailed  incidents.  It  is  the  peculiar  characteris- 
tic of  the  author  that  he  affects  the  heart,  not  by  long 
drawn  tales  of  distress,  but  by  light  electric  touches 
which  thrill  the  nerves  of  the  reader  who  possesses  a 
correspondent  sensibility  of  frame.  His  characters, 
in  like  manner,  are  struck  out  by  a  few  masterly 
touches.  He  resembles  those  painters  who  can  give 
expression  to  a  figure  by  two  or  three  strokes  of  bold 
outline,  leaving  the  imagination  to  fill  up  the  sketch  ; 
the  feelings  are  really  as  awakened  by  the  story  of 
Le  Fevre  as  by  the  narrative  of  Clarissa.  The  in- 
delicacies of  these  volumes  are  very  reprehensible, 
and  indeed  in  a  clergyman  scandalous,  particularly  in 
the  first  publication,  which  however  has  the  richest 
vein  of  humour.  The  two  Shandys,  Trim,  Dr  Slop, 
are  all  drawn  with  a  masterly  hand.  It  is  one  of  the 
merits  of  Sterne,  that  he  has  awakened  the  attention 
of  his  readers  to  the  wrongs  of  the  poor  negroes,  and 


•F  ROMANCE-WRITING.  135 

certainly  a  great  spirit  of  humanity  and  tenderness 
breathes  throughout  the  work.  It  is  rather  mortifying 
to  reflect  how  little  the  power  of  expressing  these  feel- 
ings is  connected  with  moral  worth  ;  for  Sterne  was 
a  man  by  no  means  attentive  to  the  happiness  of  those 
connected  with  him  :  and  we  are  forced  to  confess, 
that  an  author  may  conceive  the  idea  of  "  brushing 
away  flies  without  killing  them,"  and  yet  behave  ill  in 
every  relation  of  life. 

It  has  lately  been  said  that  Sterne  has  been  indebt- 
ed for  much  of  his  wit  to  Burton's  Anatomy  of  Me- 
lancholy. He  certainly  exhibits  a  good  deal  of  read- 
ing in  that  and  many  other  books  out  of  the  common 
way,  but  the  wit  is  in  the  application,  and  that  is  his 
own.  This  work  gave  rise  to  the  rapid  effusions  of  a 
crowd  of  sentimentalists,  many  of  whom  thought  they 
had  seized  the  spirit  of  Sterne,  because  they  could 
copy  him  in  his  breaks  and  asterisks.  The  taste 
spread,  and  for  a  while,  from  the  pulpit  to  the  play- 
house, the  reign  of  sentiment  was  established.  Among 
the  more  respectable  imitators  of  Sterne  may  be  reck- 
oned Mr.  Mackenzie  in  his  Man  of  Feeling,  and  Julia 
de  Roubigne,  and  Mr.  Pratt  in  his  Emma  Corbett. 

An  interesting  and  singular  novel,  the  Fool  of  Qual- 
ity, was  written  by  Henry  Brooke,  a  man  of  genius, 
the  author  of  Gustavus  Vasa  and  many  other  produc- 
tions. Many  beautiful  and  pathetical  episodical  stories 
might  be  selected  from  it,  but  the  story  runs  out  into  a 
strain  romantic  and  improbable  beyond  the  common 
allowed  measure  of  this  kind  of  writing ;  so  that  as  a 
whole  it  cannot  be  greatly  recommended  ;  but  it  ought 
not  to  be  forgotten,  that  the  very  popular  work  of 
Sanford  and  Merton  is  taken  from  it.  It  has  not 
merely  given  the  hint  for  that  publication  ;  but  the 
plan,  the  contrasted  character  of  the  two  boys,  and 
many  particular  incidents  are  so  closely  copied,  that  it 


136  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

will  hardly  be  thought  by  one  who  peruses  them  both 
together,  that  Mr.  Day  has  made  quite  sufficient  ac- 
knowledgement in  his  preface.  Rousseau  had  about 
this  time  awakened  the  public  attention  to  the  prefer- 
ence of  natural  manners  in  children,  in  opposition  to 
the  artificial  usages  of  fashionable  life ;  and  much  of 
the  spirit  of  Emile  is  seen  in  this  part  of  the  work. 
The  present  generation  has  been  much  obliged  to  Mr. 
Day  for  separating  this  portion  of  the  novel  from  the 
mass  of  improbable  adventure  in  which  it  is  involved, 
clothing  it  in  more  elegant  language  and  giving  those 
additions  which  have  made  it  so  deservedly  a  favour- 
ite in  the  juvenile  library.  The  religious  feelings  are 
often  awakened  in  the1  Fool  of  Quality,  not  however 
without  a  strong  tincture  of  enthusiasm,  to  which  the 
author  was  inclined.  Indeed,  his  imagination  had  at 
times  prevailed  over  his  reason,  before  he  wrote  it. 

A  number  of  novels  might  be  mentioned,  which  are 
or  have  been,  popular,  though  not  of  high  celebrity. 
Sarah  Fielding,  sister  to  the  author  of  Tom  Jones, 
composed  several ;  among  which  David  Simple  is  the 
most  esteemed  :  she  was  a  woman  of  good  sense  and 
cultivation,  and  if  she  did  not  equal  her  brother  in 
talent,  she  did  not,  like  him,  lay  herself  open  to  moral 
censure.  She  translated  Xenophon's  Socrates,  and 
wrote  a  very  pretty  book  for  children,  The  Governess 
or  Female  Academy. 

Many  tears  have  been  shed  by  the  young  and  ten- 
der hearted  over.  Sidney  Biddtdpk,  the  production  of 
Mrs.  Sheridan,  the  wife  of  Mr*  Thomas  Sheridan,  the 
lecturer,  an  ingenious  and  amiable  woman  :  the  senti- 
ments of  this  work  are  pure  and  virtuous,  but  the  au- 
thor seems  to  have  taken  pleasure  in  heaping  distress 
on  virtue  and  innocence,  merely  to  prove,  what  no  one 
will  deny,  that  the  best  dispositions  are  not  always 
sufficient  to  ward  off  the  evils  of  life.     Whv  is  it  thai 


OF  ROMANCE-WRITING.  187 

women  when  they  write,  are  apt  to  give  a  melancholy 
tinge  to  their  compositions  ?  Is  it  that  they  suffer 
more,  and  have  fewer  resources  against  melancholy  ? 
Is  it  that  men,  mixing  at  large  in  society,  have  a  brisker 
flow  of  ideas,  and  seeing  a  greater  variety  of  charac- 
ters, introduce  more  of  the  business  and  pleasures  of 
life  into  their  productions  ?  Is  it  that  humour  is  a 
scarcer  product  of  the  mind  than  sentiment,  and  more 
congenial  to  the  stronger  powers  of  man  ?  Is  it  that 
women  nurse  those  feelings  in  secrecy  and  silence,  and 
diversify  the  expression  of  them  with  endless  shades 
of  sentiment  which  are  more  transiently  felt,  and  with 
fewer  modifications  of  sentiment  by  the  other  sex  ? 
The  remark,  if  true,  has  no  doubt,  many  exceptions  ; 
but  the  productions  of  several  ladies,  both  French  and 
English,  seems  to  countenance  it. 

Callistus  or  The  Man  of  Fashion,  by  Mr.  Mulso, 
is  a  pathetic  story ;  but  it  is  written  entirely  for  moral 
effect,  and  affords  little  of  entertainment.  Mr.  Graves, 
an  author  of  a  very  different  cast,  is  known  in  this 
walk  by  Columella,  and  his  Spiritual  Quixote.  The 
latter  is  a  popular  work,  and  possesses  some  humour ; 
but  the  humour  is  coarse,  and  much  too  indiscrimin- 
ately levelled  against  a  society,  whose  doctrines  opera- 
ting with  strong  effect  upon  a  large  body  of  the  most 
vicious  and  ignorant  class,  must  necessarily  include  in 
their  sweeping  net  much  vice  and  folly,  as  well  as 
much  of  sincere  piety  and  corresponding  morals.  The 
design  of  his  Columella  is  less  exceptionable.  It 
presents  a  man  educated  in  polite  learning  and  man- 
ners, who  from  a  fastidious  rejection  of  the  common 
active  pursuits  of  life,  rusticates  in  a  country  solitude, 
grows  morose  and  peevish,  and  concludes  with  mar- 
rying his  maid ;  no  unusual  consequence  of  a  whim- 
sical and  morose  singularity;  the  secret  springs  of 
which  are,  more  commonly  a  tincture  of  indolence 


13S  URIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

and  pride  than  superiority  of  genius.  Mr.  Graves 
was  brought  up  originally  for  physic,  but  took  orders 
and  became  rector  of  Claverton  near  Bath.  He  was 
the  author  of  several  publications,  both  translations 
and  original ;  he  was  fond  of  writing,  and  published 
what  he  called  his  Senilities  when  at  the  age  of  near 
ninety.  He  died  in  1804. — But  it  is  time  to  retire 
from  the  enumeration  of  these  works  of  fancy,  or  the 
reader  might  be  as  much  startled  with  the  number  of 
heroes  and  heroines  called  up  around  him,  as  Ulysses 
was  with  the  troops  of  shades  that  came  flocking  about 
him  in  the  infernal  regions. 

If  the  end  and  object  of  this  species  of  writing  be- 
asked,  many,  no  doubt,  will  be  ready  to  tell  us  that  its 
object  is, — to  call  in  fancy  to  the  aid  of  reason  to  de- 
ceive the  mind  into  embracing  truth  under  the  guise 
of  fiction  : 

"  Cosi  all'  egro  fanclul  porgiamo  aspersi 
Di  soave  licor  gli  orli  del  vaso  : 
Succhi  amari  ingannato  intanto  ei  beve, 
E  dall'  ing-anno  auo  vita  riceve  :  " 

with  such  like  reasons  equally  grave  and  dignified. 
For  my  own  part  I  scruple  not  to  confess  that  when  1 
take  up  a  novel,  my  end  and  object  is  entertainment ; 
and  as  I  supect  that  to  be  the  case  with  most  readers, 
I  hesitate  not  to  say  that  entertainment  is  their  legiti- 
mate end  and  object.  To  read  the  productions  of 
wit  and  genius  is  a  very  high  pleasure  to  all  persons 
of  taste,  and  the  avidity  with  which  they  are  read  In- 
all  such,  shows  sufficiently  that  they  are  calculated  to 
answer  this  end.  Reading  is  the  cheapest  of  plea- 
sures :  it  is  a  domestic  pleasure.  Dramatic  exhibitions 
give  a  more  poignant  delight,  but  they  are  seldom  en- 
joyed in  their  perfection,  and  never  without  expense 
and  trouble.      Poetry  requires  in  the  reader  a  certain 


OF  ROMANCE-WRITING.  139 

elevation  of  mind  and  a  practised  ear.  It  is  seldom 
relished  unless  a  taste  be  formed  for  it  pretty  early. 
But  the  humble  novel  is  always  ready  to  enliven  the 
gloom  of  solitude,  to  soothe  the  languor  of  debility 
and  disease,  to  win  the  attention  from  pain  or  vexatious 
occurrences,  to  take  man  from  himself,  (at  many  times 
the  worst  company  he  can  be  in,)  and  while  the  mov- 
ing picture  of  life  passes  before  him,  to  make  him  for- 
get the  subject  of  his  own  complaints.  It  is  pleasant  to 
the  mind  to  sport  in  the  boundless  regions  of  possibil- 
ity ;  to  find  relief  from  the  sameness  of  every-day 
occurrences  by  expatiating  amidst  brighter  skies  and 
fairer  fields  ;  to  exhibit  love  that  is  always  happy, 
valour  that  is  always  successful ;  to  feed  the  appetite 
for  wonder  by  a  quick  succession  of  marvellous  events; 
and  to  distribute,  like  a  ruling  providence,  rewards 
and  punishments  which  fall  just  where  they  ought  to  fall. 

It  is  sufficient  therefore  as  an  end,  that  these  writ- 
ings add  to  the  innocent  pleasures  of  life ;  and  if  they 
do  no  barm,  the  entertainment  they  give  is  a  sufficient 
good.  We  cut  down  the  tree  that  bears  no  fruit,  but 
we  ask  nothing  of  a  flower  beyond  its  scent  and  its 
colour.  The  unpardonable  sin  in  a  novel  is  dullness : 
however  grave  or  wise  it  may  be,  if  the  author  pos- 
sesses no  powers  of  amusing,  he  has  no  business  to 
write  novels;  he  should  employ  his  pen  in  some  more 
serious  part  of  literature. 

But  it  is  not  necessary  to  rest  the  credit  of  these 
works  on  amusement  alone,  since  it  is  certain  they 
have  had  a  very  strong  effect  in  infusing  principles  and 
moral  feelings.  It  is  impossible  to  deny  that  the  most 
glowing  and  impressive  sentiments  of  virtue  are  to  be 
found  in  many  of  these  compositions,  and  have  been 
deeply  imbibed  by  their  youthful  readers.  They 
awaken  a  sense  of  finer  feelings  than  the  ordinary 
commerce  of  life  inspires.     Many  a  young  woman 


140  ORIGIN  AND  PROGH) !SS 

has  caught  from  such  works  as  Clarissa  or  Cecilia 
ideas  of  refinement  and  delicacy  which  were  not,  per- 
haps, to  be  gained  in  any  society  she  could  have  ac- 
cess to.  Many  a  maxim  of  prudence  is  laid  up  in  the 
memory  from  these  stores,  ready  to  operate  when  oc- 
casion offers. 

The  passion  of  love,  the  most  seductive  of  all  the 
passions,  they  certainly  paint  too  high,  and  represent 
its  influence  beyond  what  it  will  be  found  to  be  in  real 
life  ;  but  if  they  soften  the  heart,  they  also  refine  it. 
They  mix  with  the  common  passions  of  our  nature  all 
that  is  tender  in  virtuous  affection  ;  all  that  is  estima- 
ble in  high  principle  and  unshaken  constancy ;  all  that 
grace,  delicacy,  and  sentiment  can  bestow  of  touching 
and  attractive.  Benevolence  and  sensibility  to  distress 
are  almost  always  insisted  upon  in  works  of  this  kind  ; 
and  perhaps  it  is  not  exaggeration  to  say,  that  much 
of  the  softness  of  our  present  manners,  much  of  that 
tincture  of  humanity  so  conspicuous  amidst  all  our 
vices,  is  owing  to  the  bias  given  by  our  dramatic  writ- 
ings and  fictitious  stories.  A  high  regard  to  female 
honour,  generosity,  and  a  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  are 
strongly  inculcated.  It  costs  nothing,  it  is  true,  to  an 
author  to  make  his  hero  generous,  and  very  often  he 
is  extravagantly  so ;  still  sentiments  of  this  kind  serve 
in  some  degree  to  counteract  the  spirit  of  the  world, 
where  selfish  considerations  have  always  more  than 
their  due  weight.  In  what  discourse  from  the  pulpit 
are  religious  feelings  more  strongly  raised  than  in  the 
prison  sermon  of  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  or  some 
parts  of  The  Fool  of  Quality  1 

But  not  only  those  splendid  sentiments  with  which, 
when  properly  presented  our  feelings  take  part,  and 
kindle  as  we  read  ; — the  more  severe  and  homely  vir- 
tues, have  been  enforced  in  the  works  of  a  Barney  a  id 
an  Edgeworth.     Writers  of  their  good  sense  have  oh- 


•  F  ROMANCE-WRITING.  141 

served  that  while  these  compositions  cherished  even  a 
romantic  degree  of  sensibility,  the  duties  that  have  less 
brilliancy  to  recommend  them,  were  neglected.  Where 
can  be  found  a  more  striking  lesson  against  unfeeling 
dissipation  than  the  story  of  the  Harrels  9  Where  have 
order,  neatness,  industry,  sobriety,  been  recommended 
with  more  strength  than  in  the  agreeable  tales  of  Miss 
Edgeworth?  If  a  parent  wishes  his  child  to  avoid  ca- 
price, irregularities  of  temper,  procrastination,  coquet- 
ry, affectation, — all  those  faults  which  undermine  fami- 
ly happiness  and  destroy  the  every-day  comforts  of 
common-life, — whence  can  he  derive  more  impressive 
morality  than  from  the  same  source  I  When  works 
of  fancy  are  thus  made  subservient  to  the  improvement 
of  the  rising  generation,  they  certainly  stand  on  a 
higher  ground  than  mere  entertainment,  and  we  revere 
while  we  admire. 

Some  knowledge  of  the  world  is  also  gained  by 
these  writings,  imperfect  indeed,  but  attained  with 
more  ease  and  attended  with  less  danger,  than  by 
mixing  in  real  life.  If  the  stage  is  a  mirror  of  life, 
so  is  the  novel,  and  perhaps  a  more  accurate  one,  as 
less  is  sacrificed  to  effect  and  representation.  There 
are  many  descriptions  of  characters  in  the  busy  world 
which  a  young  woman  in  the  retired  scenes  of  life 
hardly  meets  with  at  all,  and  many  whom  it  is  safer  tr 
read  of  than  to  meet ;  and  to  either  sex  it  must  be 
desirable,  that  the  first  impressions  of  fraud,  selfishness, 
profligacy  and  perfidy,  should  be  connecter1,  as  in 
good  novels  they  always  will  be,  with  infamv  and  ruin. 
At  any  rate  it  is  safer  to  meet  with  a  bad  character  in 
the  pages  of  a  fictitious  Story  than  in  the  polluted 
walks  of  life ;  but  an  author  solicitous  for  the  morals 
of  his  readers  will  be  sparing  in  the  introduction  of 
such  characters. — It  is  an  aphorism  of  Pope, 

"  Vice  is  a  monster  of  such  frightful  mien, 
As  to  be  hated,  needs  but  to  be  seen." 
13 


142  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

But  he  adds, 

"  But  seen  too  oft,  familiar  with  her  face, 
We  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace." 

Indeed  the  former  assertion  is  not  true  without  con- 
siderable modifications.  If  presented  in  its  naked 
deformity,  vice  will  indeed  give  disgust ;  but  it  may 
be  so  surrounded  with  splendid  and  engaging  qualities, 
that  the  disgust  is  lost  in  admiration.  Besides  though 
the  selfish  and  mean  passions  are  radically  unlovely, 
it  is  not  the  same  with  those  passions  which  all  have 
felt,  and  few  are  even  desirous  to  resist.  To  present 
these  to  the  young  mind  in  the  glowing  colours  of  a 
Rousseau  or  a  Madame  de  Stael,  is  to  awaken  and 
increase  sensibilities  which  it  is  the  office  of  wise  re- 
straint to  calm  and  to  moderate.  Humour  covers  the 
disgust  which  the  grosser  vices  would  occasion  ;  pas- 
sion veils  the  danger  of  the  more  seducing  ones. 

After  all,  the  effect  of  novel-reading  must  depend, 
as  in  every  other  kind  of  reading,  on  the  choice  which 
is  made.  If  the  looser  compositions  of  this  sort  are 
excluded,  and  the  sentimental  ones  chiefly  perused, 
perhaps  the  danger  lies  more  in  fixing  the  standard  of 
virtue  and  delicacy  too  high  for  real  use,  than  in  de- 
basing it.  Generosity  is  carried  to  such  an  excess  as 
would  soon  dissipate  even  a  princely  fortune;  a  weak 
compassion  often  allows  vice  to  escape  with  impunity  ; 
an  over-strained  delicacy,  or  regard  to  a  rash  vow  is  al- 
lowed to  mar  all  the  prospects  of  a  long  life  ;  dangers 
are  d<  spised  -<:\u\  self  is  annihilated,  to  a  degree  that 
j,i  id<  nee  does  not  warrant,  and  virtue  is  far  from  re- 
quiring.  The  mosl  generous  man  living,  the  most  af- 
fectionate friend,  the  most  dutiful  child  would  find  his 
character  fall  far  short  of  the  perfections  exhibited  in 
a  highly-wroughl  novel. 

Love  is  a  passion  particularly  exaggerated  in  novels. 
It  forms  the  chief  interest  of  by  far  the  greater  part  of 


OF  ROMANCE-WRITING.  143 

them.  In  order  to  increase  this  interest,  a  false  idea 
is  given  of  the  importance  of  the  passion.  It  occupies 
the  serious  hours  of  life  ;  events  all  hinge  upon  it  ; 
every  thing  gives  way  to  its  influence,  and  no  length 
of  time  wears  it  out.  When  a  young  lady  having 
imbibed  these  notions,  comes  into  the  world,  she  finds 
that  this  formidable  passion  acts  a  very  subordinate 
part  on  the  great  theatre  of  life  ;  that  its  vivid  sensa- 
tions are  mostly  limited  to  a  very  early  period  ;  and 
that  it  is  by  no  means,  as  the  poet  sings, 

"  All  the  colour  of  remaining  life." 

She  will  find  but  few  minds  susceptible  of  its  more 
delicate  influence.  Where  it  is  really  felt,  she  will  see 
it  continually  overcome  by  duty,  by  prudence,  or 
merely  by  a  regard  for  the  show  and  splendour  of  life  ; 
and  that  in  fact  it  has  a  very  small  share  in  the  trans- 
actions of  the  busy  world,  and  is  often  little  consulted 
even  in  choosing  a  partner  for  life.  In  civilized  life, 
both  men  and  women  acquire  so  early  a  command 
over  their  passions  that  the  strongest  of  them  are 
taught  to  give  way  to  circumstances,  and  a  moderate 
liking  will  appear  apathy  itself  to  one  accustomed  to 
see  the  passion  painted  in  its  most  glowing  colours. 
Least  of  all,  will  a  course  of  novels  prepare  a  young 
lady  for  the  neglect  and  tedium  of  life  which  she  is 
perhaps  doomed  to  encounter.  If  the  novels  she 
reads  are  virtuous,  she  has  learned  how  to  arm  herself 
with  proper  reserve  against  the  ardour  of  her  lover ; 
she  has  been  instructed  how  to  behave  with  the  ut- 
most propriety  when  run  away  with  like  Miss  Byron, 
or  locked  up  by  a  cruel  parent,  like  Clarissa  ;  but  she 
is  not  prepared  for  indifference  and  neglect.  Though 
young  and  beautiful,  she  may  see  her  youth  and  beau- 
ty pass  away  without  conquests,  and  the  monotony  of 
her  life  will  be  apt  to  appear  more  insipid  when  con- 
trasted with  scenes  of  perpetual  courtship  and  passion. 


144  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS 

It  may  be  added  with  regard  to  the  knowledge  ol 
die  world,  which,  it  is  allowed,  these  writings  are  cal- 
culated in  some  degree  to  give,  that  let  them  be  as 
well  written  and  with  as  much  attention  to  real  life 
and  manners  as  they  can  possibly  be,  they  will  in 
some  respects  give  false  ideas  from  the  very  nature  of 
fictitious  writing.  Every  such  work  is  a  whole,  in 
which  the  fates  and  fortunes  of  the  personages  are 
brought  to  a  conclusion  agreeably  to  the  author's 
preconceived  idea.  Every  incident  in  a  well  written 
composition  is  introduced  for  a  certain  purpose,  and 
made  to  forward  a  certain  plan.  A  sagacious  reader 
is  never  disappointed  in  his  forebodings.  If  a  promi- 
nent circumstance  is  presented  to  him,  he  lyys  hold 
on  it,  and  may  be  very  sure  it  will  introduce  some 
Striking  event ;  and  if  a  character  has  strongly  en- 
gaged his  affections,  he  need  not  fear  being  obliged  to 
withdraw  them  ;  the  personages  never  turn  out  differ- 
ently from  what  their  appearance  gave  him  a  right  to 
expect;  they  gradually  open,  indeed  ;  they  may  sur- 
prise, but  they  never  disappoint  him.  Even  from  the 
elegance  of  a  name  he  may  give  a  guess  at  the  ame- 
nity of  the  character.  But  real  life  is  a  kind  of 
chance-medley  consisting  of  many  unconnected  scenes. 
The  great  author  of  the  drama  of  life  has  not  finished 
his  piece ;  but  the  author  must  finish  his  ;  and  vice 
must  be  punished  and  virtue  rewarded  in  the  compass 
of  a  iew  volumes  ;  and  it  is  a  fault  in  his  composition 
if  every  circumstance  does  not  answer  the  reasonable 
expectations  of  the  reader.  But  in  real  life  our  rea- 
sonable expectations  are  often  disappointed  ;  many 
incidents  occur  which  are  like  passages  that  lead  to 
nothing,  and  characters  occasionally  turn  out  quite  dif- 
ferent from  what  our  fond  expectations  promised. 

In  short,  the  reader  of  a  novel  forms  his  expecta- 
tions from  what  he  supposes  to  pass  in  the  mind  of 
the  author,  and  guesses  rightly  at  his  intentions,  but 


Or  ROMANCE-WRITING.  145 

would  often  guess  wrong  if  he  were  considering  the 
real  course  of  nature.  It  was  very  probable  at  some 
period  of  his  history  that  Gil  Bias,  if  a  real  charac- 
ter, would  come  to  be  hanged  ;  but  the  practised  novel- 
reader  knows  very  well  that  no  such  event  can  await 
the  hero  of  the  tale.  Let  us  suppose  a  person  spec- 
ulating on  the  character  of  Tom  Jones  as  the  produc- 
tion of  an  author,  whose  business  it  is  pleasingly  to 
interest  his  readers.  He  has  no  doubt  but  that  in 
spite  of  his  irregularities  and  distresses,  his  history  will 
come  to  an  agreeable  termination.  He  has  no  doubt 
but  that  his  parents  will  be  discovered  in  due  lime ; 
he  has  no  doubt  but  that  his  love  for  Sophia  will  be 
rewarded  sooner  or  later  with  her  hand  ;  he  has  no 
doubt  of  the  constancy  of  that  young  lady  or  of  their 
entire  happiness  after  marriage.  And  why  does  he 
foresee  all  this  ?  Not  from  the  real  tendencies  of 
things,  but  from  what  he  has  discovered  of  the  author's 
intentions.  But  what  would  have  been  the  probabili- 
ty in  real  life  ?  Why,  that  the  parents  would  either 
never  have  been  found,  or  have  proved  to  be  persons 
of  no  consequence — that  Jones  would  pass  from  one 
vicious  indulgence  to  another,  till  his  natural  good  dis- 
position was  quite  smothered  under  his  irregulari- 
ties— that  Sophia  would  either  have  married  her  lover 
clandestinely,  and  have  been  poor  and  unhappy ;  or 
she  would  have  conquered  her  passion,  and  married 
some  country  gentleman  with  whom  she  would  have 
lived  in  moderate  happiness,  according  to  the  usual 
routine  of  married  life.  But  the  author  would  have 
done  very  ill  so  to  have  constructed  his  story.  If 
Booth  had  been  a  real  character,  it  is  probable  his 
Amelia  and  her  family  would  not  only  have  been 
brought  to  poverty  but  left  in  it ;  but  to  the  reader  it 
is  much  more  probable  that  by  some  means  or  other 
they  will  be  rescued  from  it,  and  left  in  possession  of 
all  the  comforts  of  life.     It  is  probable  in  Zelnco  that 


146  ORIGIN   AND  PROGRESS 

the  detestable  husband  will  some  way  or  other  be  got 
rid  of ;  but  wo  to  the  young  lady,  who,  when  marri- 
ed, should  be  led,  by  contemplating  the  possibility  of 

.such  an  event,  to  cherish  a  passion  which  ought  to  be 
entirely  relinquished  ! 

Though  a  great  deal  of  trash  is  every  season  pour- 
ed out  upon  the  public  from  the  English  presses,  yet 
in  general  our  novels  are  not  vicious ;  the  food  has 
neither  flavour  nor  nourishment,  but  at  least  it  is  not 
poisoned.  Our  national  taste  and  habits  are  still  turn- 
ed toward  domestic  life  and  matrimonial  happiness,  and 
the  chief  harm  done  by  a  circulating  library  is  occasion- 
ed by  the  frivolity  of  its  furniture,  and  the  loss  of  time 
incurred.  Now  and  then  a  girl  perhaps  may  be  led 
by  them  to  elope  with  a  coxcomb  ;  or,  if  she  is  hand- 
some, to  expect  the  homage  of  a  Sir  Harry  or  My 
lord,  instead  of  the  plain  tradesman  suitable  to  her  sit- 
uation in  life ;  but  she  will  not  have  her  mind  contam- 
inated with  such  scenes  and  ideas  as  Crebillon,  Louvet, 
and  others  of  that  class  have  published  in  France. 

And  indeed  notwithstanding  the  many  paltry  books 
of  this  kind  published  in  the  course  of  every  year,  it 
may  safely  be  affirmed  that  we  have  more  good  writ- 
ers in  this  walk  living  at  the  present  time,  than  at  any 
period,  since  the  days  of  Richardson  and  Fielding. 
A  very  great  proportion  of  these  are  ladies  :  and 
surely  it  will  not  be  said  that  either  taste  or  morals 
have  been  losers  by  their  taking  up  the  pen.  The 
names  of  D'Arblay,  Edgeworth,  Inch  bald,  RadclifFe, 
and  a  number  more  will  vindicate  this  assertion. 

No  small  proportion  of  modern  novels  have  been 
devoted  to  recommend,  or  to  mark  with  reprobation, 
those  systems  of  philosophy  or  politics,  which  have 
raised  so  much  ferment  of  late  years.  Mr.  Holcroft's 
Anna  St.  Ives  is  of  this  number  :  its  beauties,  and 
beauties  it  certainly  has,  do  not  make  amends  for  its 
absurdities.     What  can  he  more  absurd  than  to  re- 


OP  ROMANCE-WRITING.  147 

prt-sent  a  young  lady,  gravely  considering,  in  the  dis- 
posal of  her  hand,  how  she  shall  promote  the  greatest 
possible  good  of  the  system  ?  Mr.  Holcroft  was  a 
man  of  strong  powers,  and  his  novels  are  by  no  means 
without  merit,  but  his  satire  is  often  partial ;  and  his 
representations  of  life  unfair.  On  the  other  side  may 
be  reckoned  The  modern  Philosophers,  and  the  novels 
of  Mrs.  West.  In  the  war  of  systems  these  light 
skirmishing  troops  have  often  been  employed  with 
great  effect ;  and  so  long  as  they  are  content  with  fair, 
general  warfare,  are  perfectly  allowable.  We  have 
lately  seen  the  gravest  theological  discussions  present- 
ed to  the  world  under  the  attractive  form  of  a  novel, 
and  with  a  success  which  seems  to  show,  that  the  in- 
terest even  of  the  generality  of  readers  is  more  strongly 
excited  when  some  serious  end  is  kept  in  view. 

It  is  not  the  intention  in  these  slight  remarks  to 
enumerate  those  of  the  present  day  who  have  suc- 
cessfully entertained  the  public  ;  otherwise  Mr.  Cum- 
berland might  be  mentioned,  that  veteran  in  every 
field  of  literature  ;  otherwise  a  tribute  ought  to  be 
paid  to  the  peculiarly  pathetic  powers  of  Mrs.  Opie  ; 
nor  would  it  be  possible  to  forget  the  very  striking  and 
original  novel  of  Caleb  Williams,  in  which  the  author 
without  the  assistance  of  am  of  the  common  events 
or  feelings  on  which  these  stories  generally  turn,  has 
kept  up  the  curiosity  and  interest  of  the  reader  in  the 
most  lively  manner;  nor  his  St.  Leon,  the  ingenious 
speculation  of  a  philosophical  mind,  which  is  also 
much  out  of  the  common  track.  It  will  bear  an  ad- 
vantageous comparison  with  Swift's  picture  of  the 
Strulbrugs  in  his  Voyage  to  Lriputa,  the  tendency  of 
which  seems  to  be  to  repress  the  wish  of  never-ending 
life  in  this  world  ;  but  in  fact  it  does  not  bear  at  all 
upon  the  question,  for  no  one  ever  did  wish  for  im- 
mortal life  without  immortal  youth  to  accompany  it, 
the  one  wish  being  as  easily  formed  as  the  other  ;  but 


148  ORIGIN   AND  PROGRESS 

St.  Leon  shows,  from  a  variety  of  striking  circum- 
Stances  that  hoth  together  would  pall,  and  that  an  im- 
mortal human  creature  would  grow  an  insulated,  un- 
happy being. 

With  regard  to  this  particular  Selection,  it  presents 
a  series  of  the  most  approved  novels,  from  the  first 
regular  productions  of  the  kind  to  the  present  time  ; 
they  are  of  very  different  degrees  of  merit ;  but  none, 
it  is  hoped,  so  destitute  of  it  as  not  to  afford  entertain- 
ment. Variety  in  manner  has  been  attended  to.  As  to 
the  rest,  no  two  people  probably  would  make  the  same 
choice,  nor  indeed  the  same  person  at  any  distance  of 
time.  A  few  of  superior  merit  were  chosen  without 
difficulty,  but  the  list  was  not  completed  without  fre- 
quent hesitation.  Some  regard  it  has  been  thought  pro- 
per to  pay  to  the  taste  and  preference  of  the  public,  as 
was  but  reasonable  in  an  undertaking  in  which  their 
preference  was  to  indemnify  those  who  are  at  the 
expense  and  risk  of  the  publication.  Copy-right  also 
was  not  to  be  intruded  on,  and  the  number  of  volumes 
was  determined  by  the  booksellers.  Some  perhaps 
may  think  that  too  much  importance  has  been  already 
given  to  a  subject  so  frivolous ;  but  a  discriminating 
taste  is  no  where  more  called  for  than  with  regard  to 
a  species  of  books  which  every  body  reads.  It  was 
said  by  Fletcher  of  Saltoun,  "  Let  me  make  the  bal- 
lads of  a  nation,  and  I  care  not  who  makes  the  laws." 
Might  it  not  be  said  with  as  much  propriety,  Let  me 
make  the  novels  of  a  country,  and  let  who  will,  make 
the  systems  ? 


